


You, Unsuspecting

by prairie_dust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Rating Might Change, Slow Burn, WIP so tags will change, Writing Prompt Wednesday, could go up or down, ish, that's the problem with WIPs, wedding au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:50:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairie_dust/pseuds/prairie_dust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean owns and operates the Castle, a special event venue in his hometown of Lawrence, Kansas. Newcomer florist Castiel Novak seems to really want his referrals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So one of last week’s Writing Prompt Wednesday (hosted by the talented and prolific  
> [Unforth](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/)) prompts about a wedding au really gripped me. This prompt was “Of late, I’ve noticed that the sample bouquets that the florist sends to me for the weddings at my venue have been getting more and more elaborate. It’s great, the couples interested in renting the venue adore them and I’m able to send the florist lots of business, which makes me happy cause, well…it just makes me happy, okay? But really, I know how much these flowers cost, and it can’t be worth it for the florist to keep spending this much on samples…”
> 
> I fiddled with it just a little-- I’ve never written anything from a prompt before and I kind of forgot some of the parameters as I was carving out the story, so it’s not an exact fit. Anyways, here we go...
> 
>  
> 
> I hide myself within my flower,  
> That wearing on your breast,  
> You, unsuspecting, wear me too --  
> And angels know the rest.
> 
> I hide myself within my flower,  
> That, fading from your vase,  
> You, unsuspecting, feel for me  
> Almost a loneliness.
> 
> -Emily Dickinson

Dean unlocked the Castle’s front door and flipped the entryway lights on.

“Hello, I’m back,” Dean called out into the dim, expectant hush.

He knew that once upon a time, this building had its own staff who would be up at dawn laying fires, drawing curtains, preparing meals-- that not so long ago, it used to house a small community. And a couple of times, the Castle had actually been a family home, and would have thundered under the feet of an army of youngsters.

But now, Dean didn’t even live there. As much as he loved it, he still didn’t have the courage to actually move in.

So he felt a kind of nostalgic regret every night when he turned out the lights and locked the building up for the night.

He imagined that the place got lonely without him, and he caught himself talking to it lots of times throughout the day. Lately he’d heard Charlie keeping up a running commentary, too, when she thought he wasn’t around. It wasn’t because the place was creepy-- to the contrary, the late Victorian home was charming and welcoming, and Dean had felt it come alive again under his care.

They talked to it because they loved it.

But still, it sat alone and empty through the long hours of the night and Dean always returned under an umbrella of guilt.

Dean heard Charlie clipping along behind him up the stairs. “Hey, boss,” she said, slipping past him into the relative warmth of the building.

“It’s cold as a witch’s tit this morning,” she huffed, slinging her overcoat and laptop bag into the office before tromping across the hall to the gift shop.

Dean hung his own coat up on the rack by the door, then followed Charlie with the cash drawer more sedately.

Charlie was pulling window shades and turning on the perpetually strung Christmas lights that surrounded the windows of what had once been the front living room of the Castle.

Dean stopped by the display of Valentine-themed merchandise by the shop door. “Should we mark this down some more, or pack it away for next year?”

Charlie stood next to him. “Can we just pack it away? I’m getting a little bummed looking at it all the time.”

Dean picked up two bears in bridal gowns and held them side-by-side. “But Valentine’s Day was only a week ago, don’t you love us anymore, Charlie?” he said, making the couple dance.

Charlie smacked him on the arm and turned on the radio.

Dean smiled, settling the sentimental bears back on the rack, tucking them in together thoughtfully. They’d done well in February, for an off-season month-- three weddings and a fiftieth anniversary party. He’d advertised the hell out of their gift shop so didn’t have a lot of holiday inventory left to sit on. Next year he hoped he’d be in a position to host a Sweethearts’ Tea or something. He was already percolating plans to hold a last-minute Easter fete next month.

“Hey, buck up, it’s Tuesday. Flower day!” Charlie said excitedly. “Wonder what we’ll get?” she mused, sighing and clasping her hands under her chin.

Dean smiled. He looked forward to the weekly delivery as much as Charlie did.

Last week’s flowers were a lush, green arrangement of lime-colored chrysanthemums and pale white anemone accentuated by long, dusty eucalyptus, and of course interspersed with other flowers that he rather guiltily felt that he should know the names of by now. The scent of the eucalyptus was still strong, but the blossoms were beginning to brown and droop. He ran the pad of his finger thoughtfully over one of the tight green blossoms before shaking himself out of his unexpected melancholy.

“Charlie, I have a couple coming through at ten,” he said, heading up the staicase to open up the ballrooms. “I’ll be upstairs getting ready.”

“Gotcha,” she called after him.

Dean opened doors, pulled back curtains, and turned on lights, wishing wistfully that he could afford fresh flowers in all of the Castle’s rooms every week. The Castle deserved to look beautiful all the time after some of the things previous owners had done to her.

He’d replanted the cutting garden in the back, but of course it was nothing more than twigs and hay in the middle of winter. Once it warmed up, though, he hoped to have a bed of flora he could cull from every few days himself. He’d started restoring the Castle thinking he would resell it, but once he scraped badly-conceived paint off of miles of woodwork and peeled back decades of bad wallpaper choices, he knew that the Castle’s foundations were an extension of his own bones. So he would turn himself into an amateur horticulturalist if that’s what she needed him to be.

 

\-----

 

He headed back down and hung up Charlie’s coat next to his before getting out his binders and pricing sheets. The couple he was meeting today were local and had just called asking for a tour-- no questions about dates or prices. Most of his clients came from Kansas City or further afield and cost was the first thing on their minds, so he imagined that this couple was meeting him more out of curiosity than a real desire to have their ceremony at the Castle. Maybe this was sort of a practice run for them. Didn’t matter, he’d try his best to win them over.

Dean stared at a spreadsheet he’d started when he first had the idea for an Easter brunch. There wasn’t much on it, and he had little to add that morning. He wasn’t even sure he was going to do it. It would seriously strain his budget, and he didn’t know what kind of return to expect. His Christmas Open House had been a smashing success, but the New Year’s Cocktail Hour, not so much. He needed something to happen before the wedding season kicked off, however. The long, dreary weeks of winter were stretching him thin.

The front door opened suddenly and a young woman entered brazenly. “Hello? Can we just come in?”

The hazy scent of eucalyptus vanished in a swirl of crisp, cold air.

Dean stood up with a warm smile. “Of course, welcome to the Castle,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Becky Rosen, for now at least, and this is my _fiancé_ Charles Shurley,” she said, shaking his hand enthusiastically.

“Chuck,” corrected Charles, shaking Dean’s hand in turn.

“Well first of all, congratulations,” Dean said genially.

“Thanks,” said Becky, beaming at Chuck and taking his arm.

“Thank you for considering us as part of your big day. As you can see, there’s nowhere in the area with quite the character or grandeur as the Castle.”

“I know, right?” Becky gushed. “I mean, we’ve never even been in here before!”

“Let me show you around, then. This, obviously, is our main floor, which is mostly working space. Our venue spaces are all upstairs, if you’d like to get right to it?”

Dean indicated that the couple should go up the stairs ahead of him. The Castles’s grand staircase popped excitedly as they rose; Dean ran his fingertips over the hundred-year-old hand-carved balustrade fondly. He’d spent a month stripping and refinishing that stairway.

“Up here on the second floor we can seat up to eighty people. If you’re interested in the outdoor courtyard for your reception, we can accommodate more than twice as many.”

When he’d landscaped the property, he’d made sure to put in pine and holly to keep the gardens looking green year-round, but it was a struggle to sell the courtyard in the middle of winter.

“There is an elevator on the other side of the building for guests with mobility issues,” he said, following Becky and Chuck.

“Or brides with ridiculous dress issues, right?” laughed Chuck nervously, earning an annoyed glance from his future wife. “Not that-- I mean-- yours will be lovely. You’ll be beautiful and-- and not fussy at all.”

When they reached the first landing, the two stopped to ogle the stained-glass windows that lined the stairwell.

“Wow,” breathed Becky.

“This staircase is a great place for really dramatic photos,” he added, “especially if your dress will have a long train.”

Becky nodded, speechless.

They ascended to the second floor, and the two waited for Dean. Becky stared at the cabinet displaying the Castles’s collection of Limoges china in wordless awe, trailing her fingertips over the glass doors. “So pretty,” she murmured.

“Let’s take a look at this room,” he said, indicating a doorway off to their right. “This is the blue ballroom and many people opt to have their ceremony in here.”

They entered the open, lushly decorated room, the century-old floor squeaking happily under their feet. Becky squealed and grabbed Chuck around his shoulders. “Is. This. Not. _Perfect_?” she exclaimed, bouncing excitedly.

“It, uh, sure-- it seems great,” Chuck said, smiling at his bride-to-be indulgently.

“We were thinking about having a Regency style wedding, and this-- I don’t know, it feels just right!”

Dean smiled. He didn’t dare correct her. The Castle had been built in the eighteen-nineties as a vanity project by a prominent Lawrence family as their private residence. In its prime, it had been the epitome of late-Victorian opulence. The property had been forclosed on during the Depression, then enjoyed a run as a restaurant after World War Two, but once the restaurant folded in the seventies, the Castle languished. A couple had purchased and renovated it in the eighties, but they’d never had a vision for the property and it had passed through a laundry list of owners over the last two decades. It had taken him the better part of two years, but Dean had restored it to it’s turn-of-the-century glory. Everything in the building was either antique or a more affordable period-appropriate reproduction. The building was far from run down, but the succession of owners had each left a mark on the Castle that had to be undone, from drop-ceilings to wall-to-wall carpets. He’d pored over books of old engravings and paintings looking for glimpses into interiors to base his own renovation on, he had commissioned bespoke draperies and ordered rolls of custom printed wallpaper, and had new awnings made for the southern windows. In that time he’d given himself a flying education on the history of design in the Western world during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

So, sixty years or so post-Regency, but the future Mrs. Rosen-Shurley didn’t seem to care. Dean had seen every kind of wedding imaginable at the Castle so far, from spartan and mod to rustic and casual, so he just gave her his most electric smile and let the building sell itself.

Becky left her fiancé standing in the middle of the room while she inspected the view beyond the blue velvet curtains; she scritched them with her nails absentmindedly. She looked critically at the elaborate fireplace with the blue tile surround. “So, where does everything go?” she asked uncertainly.

“Well,” Dean said, motioning toward the fireplace, “typically we have a pulpit or lectern set up here, two banks of seats here, and you would enter from that hallway we just left. There are rooms here for the bride and the groom to prepare in, which are included in the price of the venue.”

“Music?”

“Bose speakers there and there,” he said, pointing at the upper corners of the room. “All we need is your playlist.” He smiled reassuringly.

“Do you... Do you have any dates open this June?” Becky asked, suddenly hesitant.

“Would you like to go downstairs and discuss availability?” Dean prompted. He probably had dates open in June. He was still growing the business and bookings were still a little sporadic.

She smiled sunnily and they tromped back down the stairs, Dean following behind as always.

“Oh my god no those are so _beautiful_! How did I not _see_ those?” Becky suddenly shrieked from the landing.

Dean looked over the bannister. The late-century demi-lune card table in the entryway now held a new vase of fresh flowers.

And the size of it! Dean winced. He’d have to check the delivery slip, because this new arrangement was an order of magnitude larger than what he’d actually asked for.

Becky’s fingers fluttered over the large pink blossoms excitedly. “Peonies! These are my absolute favorite! They mean ‘happy marriage!’” She leaned over and inhaled. “Of course,” she said, standing back abruptly, “they can also mean ‘shame.’” She squinted at the arrangement suspiciously for a moment before smiling happily again. “They’re not even in season right now! Oh, Charles, it’s a sign!”

Dean did not roll his eyes; he’d been in this business for long enough now to have had more than one bride freak out when a last minute substitution changed the meaning of their bouquet from ‘I will live happily with you forever’ to ‘I am your enemy and my vengeance is eternal.’

He didn’t get it, himself. The flowers either matched the bridesmaids’ dresses, or they didn’t.

“This is from a new designer in town. He has a greenhouse here in Lawrence, actually,” Dean said, handing her a card from the table. “He’s especially good at period arrangements, so if you’re serious about going Regency you should give him a call.”

“’Castiel’s Flowers and Greenhouse?’ Okay,” Becky said, slipping the card into her purse. “Now, about June.”

Dean smiled and led the way into his office.

 

\-----

 

Dean saw Becky and Chuck out, frigid air stealing into the building in a whirl, and turned to look at the new flowers in his entry. They were stunning. Large peony blossoms nearly as big as his palm stood out among some kind of stiff foliage and spiky, frail, orb-shaped flowers that shuddered as he walked towards the table.

The scent of the peonies quickly surrounded him as the air stilled and warmed.

He knew that Castiel was trying to establish a relationship with him, that he was probably hoping to be Dean’s new go-to florist, but he wondered suddenly if this wasn’t a mistake-- that maybe Inias had dropped off the wrong arrangement.

“Charlie, did you double check the delivery slip when you signed for these?”

Charlie wandered out into the foyer cautiously. “I kind of didn’t. I mean, every week for three months, starts to get a little routine, right?”

“Hmm.” Dean regarded the flowers dubiously.

“I put the slip on your desk,” Charlie offered.

Dean picked up the delivery slip. ‘ _Repeating order, standard,_ ’ was written at the top in quirky handwriting. ‘ _15x24” mass, $50 (trade disc.) Peony, cleome, chrysanthemum, lotus pods. 6” bowl, square, burgundy, to be returned next week $0_.’

“Maybe they screwed up on the front end,” he said under his breath.

“You think this is a mistake?” Charlie asked, a strange note in her voice.

“Well, yeah, I mean, look at it... This wasn’t meant for me.”

“I don’t see why not,” Charlie said simply.

Dean was perplexed. His standing order was for one ‘standard’ arrangement a week. It was an indulgence, sure, but he had restrained himself, ordering the smallest arrangement possible and had told Hannah at Castiel’s Flowers that it was dealer’s choice as to what he got every week. He’d expected a rotating line-up of daisies and carnations and ferns and baby’s breath, but every week brought something unique, beautiful, and maybe Dean had started taking them for granted because when had they started getting so big?

“Yeah, I think they must have gotten an order slip switched somehow,” he said thoughtfully and sat down behind his desk.

“Okay,” said Charlie wistfully, “but don’t go messing up a good thing.” She strolled back over to the shop.

Castiel’s main shop, The Bee's Knees, was in Kansas City. He’d recently bought a run-down greenhouse here in Lawrence, so Dean called the local number.

“Castiel’s Flowers and Greenhouse, this is Hannah, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Hannah, this is Dean Winchester from over at the Castle, how’s it going?”

“Great, Mr. Winchester, great. Didn’t Inias drop off your arrangement?” she asked a little anxiously.

“Oh, yeah, he came by about an hour ago and I gotta say, it’s awesome. But I think there’s some kind of mistake. I didn’t order such a large... piece.”

He heard Hannah laugh a little on the other end of the line. “Oh, well, that’s my brother’s way of saying, um... of saying ‘thank you.’ You, ah... you’ve sent a lot of business our way since we opened.”

“I think the, what are they called, the peonies are out of season, though, right? I know there’s no way that can be a regular upgrade, even if he did write ‘trade discount.’”

Hannah seemed to hesitate. “Well, our peonies are always in bloom,” Hannah explained. “However, people usually don’t order out-of-season because they assume it will be expensive. Castiel hates to see perfectly beautiful plants go to waste, so when he had several bloom out at once this weekend, I guess he decided to send them to you.”

“Lucky me,” Dean said appreciatively. “Hey, uh, tell him thank you for me?”

“I will.”

“Alright, see you around.”

He stared at the delivery slip thoughtfully.

Dean had met Castiel himself three or four times since he’d opened up shop in what used to be Royal Nursery, and Castiel had done the flowers for a few weddings held at the Castle at the tail-end of the season. Dean had been impressed with the guy-- intense but absolutely professional, he’d gotten his shit set up with no fuss, got out of the way, then got it all torn down again with equal efficiency. While he demonstrated a wide range of styles, Dean had been most impressed by the centerpieces and bouquets for a full Downton Abbey style shindig in August. He’d somehow managed to make floods of cream-colored roses represent the entire epoch of the nineteen-twenties.

He was damn fine looking, too. Dean buried that quickly, blaming the fleeting thought on his peri-Valentine’s void.

Peonies. Ms. Rosen said they stood for a happy marriage.

He Googled ‘peony happy marriage’ and came up with several sites that claimed to be about the language of flowers. That’s what he was looking for.

He clicked on the most straightforward link-- thelanguageofflowers.com-- and pulled up a website that looked like it was straight out of the nineties, but which had a seemingly exhaustive list of flowers and their supposed meanings.

Peonies did mean happy marriage, gay life, and shame. He smiled wryly. That’s what was so bogus about this ‘language of flowers’ business-- how would anyone know which meaning to pick?

What about the next one on the slip? Cleome?

There was no cleome on the website. Huh.

He Googled it to see what it looked like. It turned out to be the willowy, feathery, pink blossoms that surrounded the heavy, fleshy peonies. Google also said it was called ‘spider flower.’

According to this decades-old website, spider flower meant ‘elope with me.’

Dean snorted. No way that was a coincidence. He pulled up the Castiel’s Flowers website and found the ‘contact us’ link, still chortling.

_Cas, it’s Dean Winchester from the Castle. Thanks for the oversized arrangement today, it really impressed a potential wedding booking that was touring through._

_I’m onto you, though. Elope with me? Seriously, you’re lucky that’s some next-level kind of stuff or they might have bolted for Vegas. I gave them your card anyway._

_I appreciate the extra effort you put into all my orders, but thought I should tell you as one businessman to another that I don’t really have much foot traffic through my location, and for sure not enough to justify out-of-season flowers that you could get more money for at retail. Most of my inquiries are through the website, so Charlie and I are the only people who end up seeing these most of the time._

_I am thinking of hosting an Easter brunch in March though and wondered if you had time for a consult this week?_

_Thanks,_

_DW_

He hit send.

But when exactly had he decided to actually do that Easter brunch? He’d called The Happy Plate to see if they could cater, he’d called around to Lawrence Magazine and some other media outlets see what advertising would run him, but he wasn’t anywhere close to ready to pull the trigger on it yet.

So, then, this would be just a consultation. He’d maybe see what some centerpieces and some accents would cost him. No big deal. This would maybe tip the scales in one direction or another.

With a sigh, he tromped across the foyer to the shop.

“Let’s get this stuff out of here,” he said, jabbing a thumb at the red and pink display by the door.

“Oh thank the maker,” Charlie breathed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried, but I had to recast Kevin as Inias. For some reason I like keeping the angels together.
> 
>  
> 
> How lovely is the silence of growing things.  
> \--Anonymous

Castiel was sweating a little by the time he’d finished reading the message from Dean.

First of all, ‘Cas’?

They’d spoken to one another only a handful of times, and it had never been anything resembling chit-chat, but he was already ‘ _Cas_ ’?

Second of all, _I’m on to you..._ His heart had gone ka- _whumph_ when he got to that part.

He’d been sending Dean Winchester of the Castle coded messages for nine weeks.

His heart rate only slowed somewhat when he realized that Dean had taken the cleome, in particular, as an in-joke and did not think it was directed at him.

Cas supposed he was being capricious and somewhat juvenile when he started crafting secret messages in Dean’s weekly arrangements. It was ‘a lonely impulse of delight,’ finding combinations of flowers that could not only convey meaning but that looked beautiful together.

He clicked on Dean’s email address and hit ‘reply.’

_Dean,_

_I’m glad you enjoyed the arrangement. It is not often that I have carte blanche to create whatever I want for someone else’s enjoyment, so when it comes time to fill your order, I indulge myself._

He hesitated, and thought, _You are my muse. You are my inspiration. I wait weeks, sometimes, for a sprout to mature enough to produce a blossom that signifies the secret content of my heart. I’ve collected seeds from banks across the country-- rareties, heirlooms, arcane wildflowers that can only be harvested from certain areas of the heartland in the short, sweet weeks of May. My heart spills over in riots of color and texture and fragrance, just for you._

But instead he wrote, _I look forward to working on your pieces every week and hope they bring you as much joy as they do me_.

He found himself flexing his hands nervously over the keyboard, wishing for inspiration. His hands were very nearly shaking. He knew that he sounded formal and maybe a little odd, but he absolutely could not think how else to reply.

 _I will be in Kansas City at my shop for the next three days; if you have Saturday open I can meet you at the greenhouse in the afternoon once I return from the farmers market. Let me know exactly what time would work for you.  
_

He hit send before he could second-guess himself into infinity, and the message winked away into the ether just before Cas realized how pushy that last line sounded _._

And he hadn’t even signed the email. He hung his head, groaning.

He wanted to keep himself a safe distance away from this crush, which was unexpected and unbecoming of a man running up on the end of his thirties-- he wanted to be sure not to give anything away to Dean, like a nervous teenager, but was instead going to leave him with the impression that he was a complete heel. Wait, unless he sounded like an asshole? He probably sounded more like an asshole. Dammit.

Cas wallowed for a moment, then pushed himself away from his computer with a sigh. He’d closed the Bee’s Knees about an hour ago, and intended to spend after-hours time posting today’s pictures to Instagram and to the shop’s Facebook account; it had been a full day and he’d taken dozens of photos. He was particularly proud of an arrangement he’d put together for a desperately upset woman who wanted to apologize to her boyfriend for demolishing him at Scrabble. It wasn’t his place to point out that one never apologizes for Scrabble; instead, he’d used large, flame-colored tiger lily blossoms as the focal points and surrounded them with spiky birds of paradise and rich mahogany leather leaf, arranging them all in a boxy laquered container. Tiger lilies meant pride, which was sort of the opposite of what his customer was going for, but flower-language wasn’t a perfect system. He wished her luck, closed his shop behind her, and withdrew into his office.

No sooner had he unlocked his laptop when he was waylaid by Dean’s email, and he’d spent forty-five whole minutes writing that piece-of-crap reply.

Cas sadly packed up the laptop, locked up the office, grabbed the day’s deposit, and decided at the last minute to head out to Lawrence instead of going home.

He craved his greenhouse, suddenly.

Cas loved the unpredictability of his profession-- he thrived on the pressure and chaos surrounding the big holidays, he lived for ordinary days that were unexpectedly busy for no discernible reason, he loved overseeing hectic weddings and milestone anniversaries, and he found meaning and gratification in crafting wreaths and casket sprays for funerals and memorials. Flowers inspired, excited, soothed, and comforted, and through that medium he could truly express himself.

But more and more he found himself longing to get back to his roots, literally-- he yearned to plunge his hands deep into cool, soft black soil and feel it crumble in his hands and fill the crevices of his fingernails. It had been a long time since his days as an undergrad when he was slinging buckets of dirt and shepherding tender, pale green cotyledons into the world. He missed it.

So Castiel pounced on the greenhouse in Lawrence almost as soon as it was listed. The owners were looking to retire and the property was their proverbial albatross, so they hadn’t quibbled too much over his offer. The nursery had been defunct for years, anyway, and the greenhouse needed a few repairs-- cracked and broken panes, mostly, and a replacement fan-- the floor needed a thorough power-washing, and the shop in front needed a new coat of paint; as a bonus, though, the sellers left their old inventory of concrete and resin yard ornaments.

He could source his own rare flowers for his River Market shop, now, as well as offer organically grown heirloom plants at the farmers market. It was a huge investment for what was very nearly a hobby, but he was already seeing it pay off as locals began buying live plants and outdoor decor there again.

And he had the room to grow his Victorian garden, with all the rare and forgotten flowers of that era’s secret language. He had intended to grow those old and symbolic florals for his own gratification, but when Dean first placed his standing weekly order, Cas’ pastime became a passion.

He left the day’s earnings at the bank and headed into the setting sun, looking forward to silence and stillness.

The drive along I-70 from River Market to Lawrence usually took a little under an hour in the evenings; thankfully the grinding Kansas City rush hour traffic had dwindled by the time Cas was ready to leave town. He tried not to think about his ill-wrought email message to Dean Winchester, trying to focus instead on the latest podcast from The Tree Amigos.

Pulling into the rutted parking lot (that badly needed to be regraded before the summer rains came) felt more like a homecoming than actually returning to his loft in Columbus Park.

The ‘open’ sign was turned off and the door placard had been flipped. The windows mirrored the deep twilight of the sky, silver and secretive. Hannah or Inias had taken in the baskets of bobbing geraniums as well as the bird feeders, which they’d found out to their chagrin attracted raccoons. He tried to shake off the notion that Dean was somewhere nearby, that for a while at least they would occupy the same geography.

He detoured around the shop and headed for the side door of the greenhouse itself.

Castiel hesitated to turn on the lights, choosing instead to stand in the humid, velvety dimness while he breathed in the pungent, heavy smell of peat moss and photosynthate. Flowers and foliage were transformed into murky banks of forest fauna, pots of petunia and begonia hung still and ponderous above the flats of annuals. The thrum of the fans made the air seem thicker, the shadows darker.

Castiel made his way over to his little stand of gardenia next to his peonies; their fleshy, perfumed blossoms stood out starkly against their deep green foliage. He loved the sharp, old-fashioned, aldehyde scent that emanated from them. They signified secret love, and he’d sent a vase of them over to the Castle a month ago. He tenderly traced the pale swirl of one flower with his fingertip, then skirted around them to turn on the spotlights over his potting benches.

He worked silently. No music, nor a podcast-- he didn’t even hum to himself. He pulled out a shoebox and flipped through it thoughtfully. It contained his collection of odd seeds-- he had everything from towering hollyhock to tiny heirloom tomatoes. He quickly located the pack he needed-- empress gloxinia, a variety from Normandy, that was deep purple near the calyx and white at the edges, with two layers of petals that was known as “double brocade.” They looked like a cross between an african violet and a pansy, but Castiel knew that they were a New World rhyzomatous plant unrelated to either. He could see why the Victorians assigned it the meaning “love at first sight”-- they were explosive, somehow startling, the round flurry of petals capturing the bursting heart during a first, fateful meeting.

Gloxinia looked like how Castiel had felt when he first met Dean Winchester.

He pulled out a stack of five-inch peat pots, arrayed them on his worktable, and scooped thick, heavy loam into them. Gloxinia seeds were tiny-- black grains of sand clustered in the folds of the little envelope. Carefully, with hands now steady, he shook out a pinch of the seeds onto a piece of paper. With a dampened q-tip, he picked up three or four seeds and carefully pushed them down into the soil. He seeded six pots this way, then with exquisite patience shook the remaining seeds back into the packet and taped it up again.

When he was finished with the gloxinia, it was full dark outside.

Castiel rolled up his bag of potting soil and stowed the shoebox.

He clicked the spotlights off and sat in the buzzing shadows for a while, until he could again see the ghostly faces of the gardenia and peonies hovering next to him. The panes of the greenhouse vaulted high above, and on the outskirts of a city like Lawrence, he could see the stars through the latticed glass.

He locked up the greenhouse, feeling crystalline and expansive. The gravel was already covered with hoary frost that glimmered in the starlight, and Castiel’s breath disappeared into the crisp air in soft clouds.

Out of habit, he checked his phone before he started his car. He’d not heard two texts from Hannah, the first telling him that she had to open the greenhouse late in the morning, and the second was a meme-- a scarecrow in a plaid shirt and denim pants standing jauntily over a field, with the caption “This job isn’t for everyone, but hay, it’s in my jeans.” He snickered and texted a smiley-face back to his sister and told her good-night.

He had two emails, both from the website. One was a reply from Dean, the other was an inquiry for a bridal consultation.

He read the consultation request first; it was wordy and went of in a few different tangents, but the gist was that she, Becky Rosen soon-to-be-Shurley, wanted a Regency wedding, and had seen an arrangement of peonies at the Castle, and that Dean Winchester had recommended him. He smiled just a little. Dean had pointed a lot of customers his way since he’d started creating his retail presence in Lawrence.

He clicked on Dean’s reply with trepidation.

 _Great,_ Dean wrote, _Saturday works for me. I’ll be by at six._

That was it.

Castiel threw his head back with a groan, banging it against the headrest of his seat.

He’d come across as an asshole.

He carefully navigated his undulating parking lot and made his way back to Kansas City under a glittering cold sky in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everything is blooming most recklessly..."  
> \--Ranier Maria Rilke

The Impala rumbled over the uneven gravel parking lot of the old Royal Nursery and Garden Center. A crisp new sign declared that it had been rechristened Castiel’s Flowers and Greenhouse.

There were three cars parked at the back of the lot, and one old rust-red Buick at the front near the doors; Dean parked off to one side, avoiding a mud puddle on his way to the entrance.

It looked like Cas had gotten some of the previous owners' old statuary in the deal, as there was a line of cement bird baths along the sidewalk. The shopfront was simple-- it was painted a Dutch blue with crisp white trim, and the soffits were hung with full birdfeeders and baskets of flowers. Dean looked at the hot red geraniums in wonder. He got an otherworldly vibe from the vibrant, cheery blossoms glowing bright in the dead of winter.

Inside, he was overwhelmed by an earthy, loamy scent; he’d expected the dank, chemical smell of the Home Depot garden department, but what surrounded him now was the smell of growing things, of blossoms and soil.

Wind chimes hung from a stand near the door and tinkled daintily as he walked in.

The shop was crammed with flowers. Not real ones, but a plethora of well-crafted silk flowers of all colors covered the walls on wreaths, in buckets, around signs that said ‘Free weeds, pick your own’ and ‘grow, dammit!’ Dean smiled. There were rows of garden ornaments, like gazing balls and ceramic frogs and the ever ubiquitous gnomes, in front of densely packed shelves of seeds and bulbs.

So, not just a florist. Smart. Royal’s had been a staple in Lawrence before the recession; he’d been a little sad to see it close.

“Welcome to Castiel’s!” Hannah poked her head out from behind a cardboard outpost with a smile. Dean had met Hannah on the few occasions that Castiel had worked at the Castle, and she brightened in recognition. “Oh, hello, Castiel is back in the greenhouse waiting for you,” she said before seeming to busy herself with assembling a cardboard outpost of vegetable seeds.

He got the feeling that he was being scrutinized as he left through the back doors, but shrugged it off.

The greenhouse was warm and muggy compared to the crisp chill of the late February winter outside, and Dean unbuttoned his coat. He circled a display of Easter lilies that were bursting into bloom, the buds hanging full and pendulous from the tops of the spiky stalks, and skirted a round, tiered shelf of newly sprouted crocuses. Two older ladies clucked and hummed over them, admiring the twee pastel-striped and polka-dotted pots and trying to guess what color each little sprig would be once it bloomed.

Nearby, Inias was pushing a cart laden with bags of potting soil over to the front of the greenhouse, and Dean gave him a friendly nod.

Cas was at the very back, watering a bank of peonies. Dean recognized them from the arrangement that he’d received earlier that week. The blossoms were heavy with water, and hung down like the heads of giggling schoolgirls, as though they knew some secret that they were struggling to keep to themselves.

Dean was reluctant to shout for Castiel’s attention, feeling like he was invading a sacred space-- a cathedral of clear-paned glass with pews of deep green vegetation-- so rather than call out across the greenhouse he wound his way patiently through rows of flowers and plants. He passed tall, precariously perched vines, fat swaying orbs, tall brushy plumes-- a chorus of technicolor blossoms, most of which he thought he’d never before seen in all his life. He could feel how alive each little group of plants were, and he idly stroked the petals of a particularly pretty stand of tulips as he passed. He’d never known how firm and silky they were.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, finally reaching the row of peonies.

Cas turned in surprise, the garden sprayer held out in front of him like a weapon. He shut it off with a yelp, but not before he’d doused the legs of Dean’s jeans and the tops of his boots.

Dean danced backwards in surprise.

“I-- I’m so sorry-- I can’t believe I-- I’m so sorry,” Cas stuttered, awkwardly gathering up the hose and dumping it in a corner.

“It’s fine, man, you barely got me,” Dean said, trying to whisk some of the water off the front of his pants before it soaked in.

“I’m so... so terribly sorry.” Cas looked pitiful and mortified at the same time.

“I startled you, it’s totally my fault. No big deal,” Dean said, stomping droplets off of his boots. He held out his hand. “Good to see you, man, how’ve you been?”

Obviously still flustered, Cas shook held out his hand, but realized that his palm was still wet-- he wiped it awkwardly on his apron before shaking Dean’s.

“I’ve been well. And you?”

“Oh, you know... bored. Not much for me to do this time of year except make my own trouble.”

“Yes, you mentioned an Easter brunch? That would be the end of March?”

“Yeah, I hope that gives us some time to play with,” Dean said, a little surprised that the small talk was over. “I mean, I know that’s not a whole lot of time but--”

“That is more than ample, I believe. Here,” he said, gesturing Dean to follow him, “you may have noticed my lilies and crocuses in the front?”

“I did, they look, um, healthy.”

Then Cas gave him a shy, proud smile. Dean thought the way he ducked his head was sweet, and caught a glimpse of his eyes crinkling at the corners just before he turned away.

He led Dean toward another row of flowers.

“Traditionally, Easter is associated with lilies, crocuses, hyacinths, tulips, jonquils...” He gestured over the blossoms, indicating that Dean was welcome to inspect them.

“You know, I was thinking about doing something a little, um, a little atypical? Does that make sense? A little, I don’t know...”

“Whimsical?” Cas guessed, frowning seriously, head tilted to the side.

“Yeah, whimsical.”

“Do you want to stay within a Victorian aesthetic?” Cas asked, glancing over his shoulder quickly and walking down the row.

Dean trailed behind and recalled what Cas had said in his email. “Well, I don’t want to be a one-trick pony. So, you know what? Why don’t you pitch something to me?”

Cas’ eyes lit up. Dean liked the change again, like sunshine after a rainy day.

“Ranunculus?” Cas said, charging over to another row of plants.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean agreed, having absolutely no idea what ranunculus was. “Something a little different. You know, something that people wouldn’t necessarily expect.”

“Here, this flower has a very sumptuous appearance without the price point of cabbage roses,” he said, pointing to a short row populated by plants with dense blossoms which looked like regular flowers that had been cubed to infinity.

Dean liked them-- they were both old-fashioned and modern-looking at the same time. Cas had a lot of pink ones, but there were blackish-purple and flaming red growing in mismatched containers, as well. They were sumptuous; their heavy, globule heads looked feathery but sturdy.

He also thought it was awesome that Cas wasn’t trying to up sell him, that he was respectful of Dean as a peer and fellow small business owner and wasn’t going to gouge him because he was pressed for time.

“They’re in the same family as buttercups,” Cas continued. “Do you-- did you have those on your school playground? I mean, if you ever noticed them...”

Dean thought for a moment, a memory trying to coalesce at the back of his mind. “I know that one. The girls used to hold it up to the bottom of their chins to see who liked butter.”

Cas laughed into his chest, nose wrinkling.

Dean liked happy Cas.

“I’ll show you a plant that I personally like to pair with ranunculus,” Cas said, motioning Dean to once again shadow him.

They stopped by a cluster of vines exploding with ruffly pink blossoms that reminded Dean of old-fashioned sunbonnets.

“This is sweet pea-- another spring plant that’s not necessarily one of the traditional Easter staples. Um, what else... Well, ferns are a little out-of-fashion right now, but I can add some fiddleheads here and there.”

“Sounds perfect.” He gently lifted a sprig of the sweet pea vine with a fingertip. The blossom perched pertly on its stalk and quivered to his heartbeat. Then he noticed something right next to them. “Hey, elope with me!”

“What?” Castiel squawked, spinning in surprise.

Dean pointed at the potted plant. “Elope with me. That’s the spider flower plant, right?”

“Yes, yes it, uh-- I’m sorry about that-- I... um...”

“Look, it’s fine, you got to get your jollies somewhere. It was cute.”

“Cute,” Cas repeated blankly. “Yes... I didn’t mean anything by it.” He stared at Dean like a startled owl.

Dean felt like their conversation had just ground to a halt. What just happened? Suddenly the man who spoke so enthusiastically about his plants looked like his plug had been pulled.

“So, I don’t have a solid idea of how many tables I’ll have yet-- it all depends on what will fit into my budget,” Dean began uncertainly.

“Of course... How many tables do you estimate?” Cas asked, catching up to the conversation laboriously.

“Um, I’m still deciding,” said Dean, stalling, knowing that he had to have some kind of numbers so that Cas could give him a bid. He tried to remember what he’d told Donna at The Happy Plate when he was inquiring about having an event catered. “Well, it will be about fifteen small tables, maybe a medium-size centerpiece for each? And a couple of larger pieces for the catering tables. Something for my entry, of course,” he added with a wink.

At that, Castiel’s eyes widened and he spun on the ball of his foot. He marched stiffly down the aisle, Dean following, bewildered, a few steps behind. “Let’s go to my office so you can show me what you think of when you say ‘medium-sized,’” he said, leading the way to the front of the greenhouse.

The cold air ripped into Dean’s open coat once they were outside, and his shins froze where damp denim clung to them. He slammed his coat closed. It was disorienting to go from the thick, clingy, living atmosphere surrounding green, growing things to the bleak, cold starkness of winter.

Cas pulled his shoulders up to his ears and walked quickly, his steps brisk and brittle on the cold gravel.

Hannah was ringing out the ladies from the crocus display as he and Cas entered the shop from the back.

“Hannah, I’m in the office,” he said simply, opening a door and holding it for Dean.

Cas’ office was small but surprisingly welcoming. Dean had expected a closet stuffed with seed catalogs and overflowing with precariously-balanced African violets in black plastic pots.

Instead, a computer with a very large, sleek monitor was set up in a corner behind a round table which had a stack of white binders on it. A dainty yellow orchid arched over a ceramic Buddha on a shelf above the computer. There was even a small purple sofa along one wall with a tiny table squeezed in next to it-- there was a yellow pot on the table, holding the African violet. Dean felt slightly vindicated.

A bookshelf took up nearly the entire back wall, and Dean had a second to glance at a few titles. ‘Domestication of Plants in the Old World,’ ‘An Heirloom Compendium,’ ‘The Erotic Blossom.’ An entire shelf of old Horticulture Magazine issues. Two shelves devoted to books and magazines about weddings. ‘Modern Bride’ and ‘The Knot’ and ‘Saying Yes.’ A large black-spined book called ‘Mourning and Grief: Traditions From Around the World’ caught his eye. No books about floral arrangements per se that he could see. Of course, he knew that Cas also had a shop in Kansas City and probably had most of his reference material there, but he seemed to take his inspiration for the greenhouse from a broader spectrum of publications.

Cas sat in the swivel chair in front of the computer and flipped open a binder; Dean took one of the chairs on the other side of the table, still uncertain what he’d done to put the other man off. He’d been brusque in his email and was always very intent when working on an event, but Dean had expected him to be a little bit friendly, maybe. How did he win over clients if he was always this curt?

“What size are your fifteen tables?” Cas asked, pushing the binder over to Dean. He began making notes in his idiosyncratic script on a blank pricing sheet as Dean looked the page over.

He was looking at a table guide-- diagrams of different table sizes and shapes and the recommended arrangement size for each. His fifteen six-seat tables called, proportionally, for a 25-inch arrangement. He wanted a lush, springtime table but really didn’t have a lot of room in his budget if Donna was firm on the catering estimate. “Um, I’ll have twelve sixty-inch tables, and eight two-tops,” he said uncertainly, reminding himself that he was just soliciting a proposal. “Probably three buffet tables, as well, that I’d like to have some kind of decoration for...” Because what the hell, why not. He could always cut those later if he needed to.

Cas hummed and flipped to another page with an assortment of vase shapes and styles on them. “I can provide the vases, of course. I do charge a small fee in the event they aren’t returned.”

Dean was just a little affronted-- why would he keep twenty-three cheap glass vases?-- but had a glimmer of an idea.

“Actually,” he said, thinking about the ranunculus and the sweet pea and his earlier assertion that he wanted a ‘whimsical’ atmosphere, “what about teapots? I’ve got a bunch of those we could use.” He felt suddenly more enthusiastic about this theoretical brunch.

Cas squinted at him. “You have twenty-three teapots?”

“Dude, I have fifty-four teapots.”

Cas blinked.

“Why do you have fifty-four teapots?”

“Let me tell you, man, my basement is absolutely crammed with stuff,” he said, leaning forward. “I spent two months just cataloging it all and weeding out the crap. There were some real treasures packed away in there, but most of everything was ten-year-old Corelle ware. Pretty, but not really valuable. I think the Castle was once owned by hoarders. Lucky me, right? But someone had spent a lot of time and money collecting tea sets.”

“I’ve done teapots before,” Cas hummed thoughtfully, pulling out the other binder. This one was obviously his portfolio, and he paged through it quickly.

Dean caught sight of round bowls with long, straight arrangements that seemed to be mostly grasses, flat platforms with elegant stands of bamboo and orchids, mason jars surrounded by fairy lights and holding twigs with sprays of delicate white flowers.

“Here,” said Castiel, and he showed Dean a photograph of a centerpiece consisting of a tall, elegant teapot overflowing with blooms and ivies.

Dean hesitated. “Most of my teapots are, you know, the short and stout kind,” Dean said uncertainly, putting his hand on his hip and cocking his other arm out, like in the children’s song, hoping to catch another fleeting smile.

“Not a problem,” said Cas, smiling shyly at Dean’s demonstration, as he pulled a sketchbook out from under the desk.

Dean watched, fascinated, as in a few strokes and squiggles Cas brought to life a round little teapot holding a tight arrangement of the swirly ranunculus and ruffly sweet pea. The sweet pea fell in a puddle around the teapot, and there were some other flowers mixed in that Dean couldn’t begin to name. Tightly curled ferns spiraled amongst the blooms, and suddenly Dean knew what ‘fiddleheads’ were. They were elfin and quizzical and Dean fell slightly in love with them.

He noticed then how long and strong Cas’ fingers were, how he held the pencil under his fingertips instead of the way he’d hold it if he were writing. His wrist flexed as he drew, the cords in his forearms rippling like the strings of a guitar. He frowned as his picture took shape, his eyebrows raised, his sharp and angular face tilted to the side; his elegant hands stilled every now and then as he pondered where to drop his next stroke.

His hair was dark and carelessly finger-combed, his hooded eyes were a dark cobalt, and Dean was fascinated with the flat planes of his face-- sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. He caught a glimpse of muscular shoulders in the way his shirt bunched under the strap of the apron.

The man shaded parts of the picture quickly, and took a long moment to check it over.

“Something like this?” Cas asked finally, showing Dean the sketch.

“That’s perfect,” Dean said, staring in wonder at the marvel that was Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found those garden signs online; I do wish I'd thought of them though!  
> Oh, and I don't know about the rest of the country, but in the Midwest people will commit heinous crimes to complete a Corelle set.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gardens are not made by singing, 'Oh how beautiful!' and sitting in the shade.  
> \--Rudyard Kipling

Castiel pulled in a deep breath and showed Dean his sketch. He’d made such a huge fool of himself that he was perspiring a little bit from embarrassment, and he’d already been a little sweaty from the greenhouse. But sketching up his idea had centered him-- with each arcing line and measured curve he felt a little bit more grounded. He was good at this-- no, he was great at this. He knew that he had artistic talent, but he also had years of experience as a business owner and used both qualities to create mock-ups and mood boards that got results.  
He wanted Dean’s business, but he also needed an excuse to work with him, to talk to him on a regular basis, perhaps-- at the very least he wanted a do-over on that horrible email exchange and have a chance to rebuild their working relationship. That would be better than nothing.  
He looked up to find that Dean was glaring icy shards at him.  
Castiel froze, again. What had he done? Was his drawing somehow offensive? Was it too precious, perhaps, too cute? Was Dean taking the inclusion of the little fiddlehead ferns as an affront to his masculinity?  
He tried to draw in another breath and could only sip air.  
What on earth had he done?  
He saw Dean shake off his expression and smile. “It looks great. Really perfect. I like the little rolled-up ferns. They're cute.”  
Cute. That was fine, then. The ferns were fine.  
Castiel tried to speak and decided to circle back around to the details of the proposal. “Fif... fift...uh, you said fifteen round tables?”  
“Is that a problem? Are those ferns hard to come by?”  
“Not at all. I wouldn’t have suggested them if they were. I can draw up the bid and have it to you by tomorrow.”  
“That...” Dean hesitated. “Good. I mean, good. Tomorrow.”  
“Tomorrow,” Castiel repeated stupidly. "I'll email it to the address you used from the website." As soon as he said it, he realized he’d thrown away a chance to see Dean again.  
“Perfect. That’s uh, that’s my personal email.”  
There was a beat, then they both stood.  
Dean again seemed to stop short.  
"Oh, yeah, about the weekly arrangements," Dean said, and then paused again. "I really appreciate you going above and beyond like you do..." He seemed to want to say more, but then just nodded and held out his hand. "Good talking to you again."  
"Likewise," Cas answered, and shook more confidently than he had before. "I look forward to working with you."  
"Likewise," Dean echoed, giving Cas a broad smile.  
Cas felt a jolt of nerves as their eyes met.  
They stared at each other for a moment, and the awkwardness that had churned between them settled into a delicate stasis.  
“Alright,” Dean said with something like a laugh, and he ducked out of Cas’ office.  
Cas heard the chimes ring as Dean left.  
He was left at a loss for what to do. He wasn’t really needed in the greenhouse, Inias knew what needed to be done. Cas had really been watering his peonies out of an abundance of nervous energy.  
He pulled up his calendar on the computer and looked over his upcoming projects to make sure there wasn’t anything that needed more urgent attention than the bid for Dean’s Easter brunch. He checked his inventory to make sure he had the plaid ribbons and glittery leprechaun hats to go with the St. Patrick’s Day wedding he was doing in a month, and made sure he’d placed the order for the bunches of shamrock and clover with his wholesaler.  
He checked his calendar. Wedding season was rolling inexorably toward him, so he saw fewer and fewer blocks of white as the months scrolled forward, but he was clear Easter weekend.   
He pulled a fresh worksheet out of a file in his cabinet and set to work calculating how much ivy, how many sprigs of sweet pea, how many stalks of ranuncula he would need. There were fillers to consider, and he went ahead and researched the cost of a few accessories—he found Easter egg picks that would lend a holiday air to the arrangements. He was tempted by some fuzzy chicks, but nixed them because, despite their utter adorableness, they didn’t fit with the theme he was piecing together. He bookmarked them for his shop, though, as ideas for spring bouquets rocketed off in tangents from his plans.  
No matter how hard he tried to focus, however, there was always the undercurrent that he was doing his utmost to impress Dean. No, not just to impress him-- to woo him, as he’d been doing for weeks already.  
He should have asked Dean to meet him for coffee one evening, when they’d had that moment earlier. He dismissed it—it hadn’t been “a moment,” it was just his own awkwardness that kept bringing the conversation to a dead end. He vacillated. No, there had definitely been something there.  
And what about that expression on Dean’s face when he saw the sketch? What if Cas had misinterpreted it?  
He realized he was staring off into space, thoughts spinning like a windmill—a lot of motion but no real progress.  
He transferred his notes to a spreadsheet, adding up the materials and including photos of the florals he intended to use, and opened his webmail.  
_That’s my personal email,_ Dean had said.  
He copied Dean’s address and opened his Gmail instead, and attached the bid.  
Now Dean would have his personal email, too.  
_Dean, here is my bid for your Easter luncheon. I would prefer to assemble the arrangements on site, as opposed to transporting your teapots back and forth._  
He had a sudden impulse to mention coffee.  
Instead he wrote, _I recommend, provided your basement is reasonably cool, that we set up there the night before. I look forward to working with you._  
He backspaced.  
_I look forward to seeing you again._  
He deleted that, too.  
_Let me know if that sounds reasonable._  
He signed it this time, and read it over and over again.  
Cas groaned. He added an invite for coffee, then deleted it. He asked Dean out to dinner, and then realized that, even for him, that was inept, and deleted yet again. Eventually he sent a reasonably neutral missive with a silent vow to ask Dean out in person next time they met.  
He powered down his desktop, turned off the lights, and closed his office behind him.  
Hannah sat on a stool at one of the registers, reading a paperback that she looked up from guiltily.  
“Slow day?”  
She smiled. “Actually, no. Just kind of dwindled down for the evening.  
“Go home. I’ll close up.”  
Hannah smiled a little wider and logged out of the register. “So, did your meeting with Dean go well?” she asked with faux innocence.  
He narrowed his eyes, picking up a teasing note despite her affect.  
“It was quite productive. He wants me to provide arrangements for a brunch he’s thinking of hosting next month.”  
She gave him a sly look, and he realized that she knew.  
“So you’ll be working together. Very nice,” she said slowly.  
“Hannah—“  
“Castiel, you’ve been nursing this crush for months-- ask him to dinner some night.”  
“I thought about coffee,” he countered defensively.  
“But you didn’t actually bring it up.”  
He shrugged and stared at a birdhouse on the back wall.  
She scowled at him.  
“He figured out my flower messages” he said to deflect Hannah’s sibling disapproval. “Or one of them at least.”  
Hannah’s eyes widened in sympathy. “Oh no, he didn’t go for it?”  
“He didn’t realize it was for him. I don’t think he… I don’t think he thinks of me that way. He’s probably not even into men, so it naturally never occurred to him. But it’s okay,” he added, “we’re developing a solid professional relationship.”  
“Oh, well, you never know,” she said philosophically. “Have a good night, Cas.” She went to the office to grab her bag.  
“Night,” he answered, trying not to sound glum.  
After Hannah had gone, Cas wandered over to his seasonal aisle. He straightened up resin bunnies and clip-on bird nests, noting that his inventory was, in fact, depleted somewhat. He was glad he was finding a place in Lawrence.  
A solid professional relationship. That would be alright. And maybe, over time, that would develop into friendship. Dean was a personable guy, and eventually maybe he’d forgive Cas his awkwardness.  
He tidied up the rest of the shop, then finally turned the signs, locked the doors, and went home, thinking about distance and wet boots.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When the flower blossoms, the bee will come."  
>  -Srikumar Rao

Dean held the six-pack in one hand and balanced the pizza boxes on his arm while he keyed into the Castle.  
Charlie rushed out of his office to rescue the wobbling boxes.  
“Thanks for agreeing to help, Chaz,” he said, relinquishing the pizza and following her into the kitchen.  
“Thanks for pizza and a paycheck,” she said, winking at him. “That’s a lot of pie, though.”  
“I brought extra for Cas,” he said offhandedly. “And you know, if he brings someone with him. For them, too.”  
“That was nice,” she said, cracking the top off of a Margiekugel. She had her laptop open on the butcher-block table. “Naked and Afraid or Pawn Stars?” she asked.  
“Oh, Naked and Afraid—we’ll get our fill of dusty old junk downstairs.”  
They ate pizza and watched people run around in the woods in their birthday suits for half an hour. Dean was edgy for no particular reason, so he downed two beers to Charlie’s one.  
“You ready?” he asked, and they tromped down the narrow, steep stairs to the Castle’s expansive basement.  
It smelled like soil, wooden beams, and darkness.  
Dean led Charlie to an old storeroom. He turned on the lights, which were four sturdy old aluminum fixtures like overturned salad bowls with glass covers full of beetles.  
“Oh. My. God.” Charlie stood stunned in the doorway.  
One of the bulbs went out with a ping.  
Dean looked over the heavy metal shelves crammed nearly to the ceiling with boxes. He’d arranged them loosely into dinner sets and knickknacks, and had already pulled the tea sets out and set them aside. “You should have seen it before I bought the shelves.”  
“It’s like that scene at the end of Raiders. Where do they end?”  
“I know. It’s…”  
“Overwhelming? Daunting? A little freaky-deaky?” She peered into an old orange crate full-to-bursting with mismatched Corelle plates and pulled one out. Dean recognized it as the Butterfly Gold pattern from the 1970s.  
He’d… done a little research. In fact, he’d thoroughly enjoyed discovering the history and value of all of the varied designs.  
“I think this summer we’ll have a giant yard sale,” he said, shifting one tilted box in the tchotchkes zone.  
“This is Corelle,” Charlie said, holding the plate up as Exhibit A. “Even I know that. People will kill each other over this stuff. Are you okay having their blood on your hands?”  
“Maybe I’ll put all that in a consignment shop, let someone else do the dirty work.”  
“Well, okay then,” she said chipperly, quickly shrugging off her astonishment, “where are these mystical teapots?”  
“This pile here,” he said, indicating a waist-high cluster of boxes to the right. “These are all of the tea sets, but there’s no rhyme or reason to them.”  
They continued to stare.  
“So… how are we doing this?” she asked.  
He handed her a Sharpie. “Dig in. Write a description of the design on the side of the box so we know where to put the pots when we’re done,” he suggested.  
He spread out the old towel on the ground for them to place the teapots on.  
Charlie stuck the pen in the pocket of her overalls and hefted off the closest box. She placed it carefully on the floor and peeled off the tape.  
Dean grabbed another, and squatted down next to her.  
Feathery dead moths and the brittle husks of other dark-dwelling insects peppered the tops of the boxes.  
He delicately pulled apart wadded newspaper and set teacups aside until he found the teapot that went with this set. It was a slightly boxy old Hutschenreuther with watercolor roses on it. It was on the tall side and the design was delicate but bright.  
Charlie pulled crumpled paper away from another and set it on the towel without really looking at it. Dean could tell that it was one of the modern, mass-produced pieces that wasn’t really very old. It was clunky and the design was mechanically screened on, and done sloppily at that.  
He thought of the elegant, flowing arrangement he’d seen in Cas’ portfolio. The man was an artist.  
“No, not that one,” Dean said.  
“You’re kidding, right?” Charlie asked, slowly closing the box she’d pulled the teapot from.  
“There are better ones in here if we can find them,” he said, setting the German teapot on the towel.  
“Dean, seriously, what does it matter? It’s spring, this one has flowers on it, let’s get moving. He’ll be here soon.”  
Dean hesitated.  
“I want to impress him,” he said under his breath.  
“What? What was that?” she said with a quirked eyebrow that told him she’d heard exactly what he’d said.  
“I want to impress him, okay?”  
“Like… you want him to admire your teapot collection?”  
Dean glared at her.  
“What’s wrong with this one?” she asked defensively, with maybe a mocking twinkle in her eye.  
“It’s just… I’m looking for the antiques.”  
Charlie cocked her head. “Someone might break one of these, you know.”  
He shrugged. “I’ll live.”  
She gave him a funny look, rewrapped the chintzy teapot, and nestled it back in its box.  
Dean pulled out another box and opened it, thinking that he remembered what was inside this one. He thought it was a bone china set painted with yellow roses.  
“Ooh, this one is nice,” Charlie said, holding one up that was decorated with a spray of white violets held together by a waving ribbon.  
Dean wondered briefly what violets meant on that language of flowers website. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”  
“I think it will score you many teapot points,” Charlie said, teasing him amicably, and set it down. “So when did this happen, anyway?”  
“When did what happen?” he asked, playing innocent.  
“When did you decide you needed to impress him with little porcelain containers?”  
“I don’t know. I was at his greenhouse, and we were kicking around some ideas, and... I just sort of… thought of it. Kind of out of nowhere.”  
“I like the way you’re subverting typical American masculinity here. You want to impress him, but instead of talking about The Big Game or showing off your car, you’re going to display your dainty little holders for herbal infusions.”  
“Yeah, exactly.” He pursed his lips and set aside another teapot, this one with little ducklings playing in the rain. He hoped Cas would at least thing it was interesting.   
“So… do you like him?”  
Dean glanced at her under his brows as he taped the box back up and pushed it against the wall. “I’m not a teenager.”  
“You like him,” said Charlie in a satisfied voice. “I approve of this ten thousand and twenty percent.”  
The house phone in Dean’s pocket rang.  
“You’ve reached the Castle, this is Dean speaking.”  
“ _Dean, we’re outside. Are you here?_ ”  
It was Cas.  
Dean jumped up off the floor and swept dust and debris off his rear. Cas’ gravelly voice lit him up somehow.  
“Yeah, we’re in the basement, must not have heard the bell. Sorry, I’ll come let you in.”  
He jogged up the stairs without a word to Charlie.  
Cas was pushing a hand truck loaded with milk crates, which in turn were bursting with greenery and blossoms, and had a bulky tote bag slung over one shoulder.  
“Hello, Dean,” he said with a small nod. His sister was behind him, crowding into the foyer with a large cardboard box full of blocks of green foam.  
“Let me give you a hand,” said Dean to Castiel as he reached the landing.  
“No thank you,” Cas said and kept walking.  
“Here,” Dean said, turning to Hannah and offering to take the box from her.  
“Oh it’s not heavy--” she started to protest, but Dean had already taken it and started to follow Cas down the hall.  
Cas was heading to the elevator.  
“Uh, elevator doesn’t go past the first floor,” Dean called. “We gotta take the stairs.”  
Cas parked his dolly near the stairway and pulled off the top crate.  
Dean, now finding himself carrying the almost weightless box of floral foam while Cas and Hannah took the heavier plastic boxes, led the way to the staircase to the basement.  
Charlie met them in the main room by the tables. “Let me take that,” she said to Dean, and he handed over the box of foam.  
“There’s more, I’ll be right back,” he said, and hustled up the steep steps. He grabbed the last crate and brought it down for Cas, taking just a second to catch his breath.  
“These are beautiful!” Hannah was saying as she helped Charlie bring teapots in from the other room. She showed one to Castiel, holding it to her cheek. “Look at this one! It has ducklings on it, in a rain puddle!” She turned it over to check for a mark on the bottom.  
“I thought that one was, you know, since it’s Easter, that it would be a good choice,” Dean stammered. It didn’t seem like Cas was impressed.  
Castiel, in fact, was hardly paying any mind. He shuffled the crates to the end of one of the tables and began unpacking the tote bag.  
“I’m going to find more teapots,” Charlie said, twitching her head toward Castiel.  
Dean caught her hint. “Hey Cas, can I uh, can I help?” he asked.  
Hannah followed Charlie, but quickly returned with another teapot. “This one is gorgeous! I can’t get over the detail! Where did you get these?” She squinted at it; it was covered handle-to-spout with an intricate garden scene.  
Dean pulled his attention away from Cas reluctantly. “Most of them came with the property,” he said, joining her on the other side of the table.  
“You’re joking!” Hannah picked up another teapot, running a reverent thumb over the design. “That’s what all those boxes are?”  
“Mostly dinner sets that one of the owners collected—some are worth a lot, some aren’t. It’s a hodge-podge.”  
Castiel lifted the box full of foam. “May I use your sink?” he asked.  
“Yeah, man, of course. Anything I can do to help?”  
Cas seemed to hesitate. “Don’t you have other matters to attend to? Upstairs?”  
“We’re pretty much ready except for your flowers and getting the silverware rolled. You sure I can’t do anything?”  
Castiel dropped the plug into the drain and began filling up the basin. “I can’t think of anything. But thank you,” he said, and stared at the water as it rose.  
Dean felt crestfallen. “I’m going to get the rest of the teapots,” he said, and retreated to the storeroom.  
“What are you doing?” Charlie hissed when he came up behind her.  
“He says he doesn’t need any help,” Dean whispered back.  
“It’s called ‘making yourself useful,’ Dean! Go do it!” Charlie said between clenched teeth. “What’s up with you anyway? Since when have you ever had problems flirting with anybody?”  
This brought him up short. Why was he feeling underconfident? He realized that Cas was a little intimidating.  
Charlie glared at him. “Go back out there.”  
He turned on his heel and rejoined Cas and Hannah.  
She was submerging blocks of foam in the sink, while Cas was carving the soaked ones up to fit in the teapots.  
“Here, I can help with this part, at least,” Dean said, pulling a knife out of the Rubbermaid box and taking up a slab of the dense green foam.  
Castiel look a little annoyed but said, “Make sure you leave plenty of room at the top and on the sides, like this,” he said, showing Dean a pot that was already filled.  
Hannah dried her hands on a towel, then drew in her elbows with a shiver. “It’s chilly down here. At least the flowers will stay fresh all night,” she laughed, smiling wryly at Dean.  
Without hesitating, Dean pulled off his flannel and offered it to her, side-eying Castiel to see if his demonstration of gallantry would be noticed.  
“Oh, no,” she said to the unspoken offer. “Please, you keep that. I’ll run to the van and get my coat,” she ended, with a glance at her brother. “There are more flowers out there, anyway.”  
Dean shrugged back into his shirt and followed her. “I’ll help you get the last of them.”  
She smiled nervously as she led the way to the van. She pulled on her coat and together they reloaded the hand cart and ferried more crates downstairs.  
Dean thought Cas looked even more dour. Maybe he and Charlie should retreat to the kitchen and get started making the silverware rolls.  
But he wasn’t wasting this chance to spend time with Cas.  
He pulled a teapot over and measured the opening against the foam. He hadn’t really thought about it, but the tops were really quite narrow. He wasn’t sure how Cas would work with them, and was starting to regret his choice.  
“Hey, are these things okay? I mean, they’re not too hard to handle?”  
“Don’t doubt my abilities,” Cas answered without looking up.  
Dean went cold. Holy moly—was he arrogant or just concentrating on his task? Dean recalled the fleeting smiles Cas flashed when they were in the greenhouse. Maybe, judging by the frown of concentration on his face, he was submersed in some kind of artistic process and wasn’t used to an audience?  
After several minutes, they had the pots stuffed with floral foam and Castiel set to work placing flowers in each pot, one variety at a time. He worked quickly and intently, his sister tailing him with bunches of green.  
Dean watched his long fingers handle stems with gentleness and surety.  
Cas’ hair was tousled on his forehead.  
Dean was again mesmerized.  
But he soon realized that he and Charlie were obviously unnecessary and, Dean thought, perhaps unwanted. After standing self-consciously nearby for a moment, Dean grabbed her arm and headed toward the staircase.  
“So, we’ll be upstairs. Rolling silverware. Holler if you need us,” he said, and ushered Charlie out of the basement.  
“Well that couldn’t have been any more awkward,” Charlie said to him once they were in the old dining room.  
“I know, right? What did I do to him? I mean, I can’t think of anything. But he acts like he can’t stand me?”  
Charlie hummed. “Maybe he’s reserved?  
“He’s really good with his clients, though..”  
“I still think you have a shot, if you stop acting like a schmuck.. I mean, maybe you don’t have instant chemistry. So what? There’s something to be said for a slow burn.”  
Dean was reminded of that last handshake at Cas’ greenhouse. They’d definitely had a moment, then, hadn’t they?  
Dean snapped open a napkin and folded it, creasing it sharply with his fingertips; the friction burned his skin slightly.  
“We’ll see, I guess.” He plopped the roll next to Charlie’s. “I’m not a schmuck, he just...”  
“Turns you into a nervous teenager.” Charlie set a roll aside and pulled another napkin from the pile.  
He gave her the bent eye and grabbed more silverware.  
They’d nearly finished when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs.  
Despite his reservations, Dean hurried into the hallway to intercept them at the door.  
“We’re done,” said Hannah with a smile.  
“Awesome. Hey, guys, there’s pizza on the table and beer in the fridge if you want any.”  
Together, Cas said, “No, thank you,” while Hannah said, “That would be great, thanks!”  
With a barely concealed grimace, Cas followed his sister into the kitchen.  
Dean pulled out two more plates, covered them generously with pizza and slid them into his industrial microwave. He offered a beer to each of them and kept the third for himself.  
No one said anything.  
The microwave beeped, and Dean handed them their plates wordlessly.  
Cas ate his pizza assiduously, looking at a spot on the floor about a foot in front of his toes.  
Both he and Hannah folded their slices.  
“So, you fold your pie, huh?” Dean observed.  
“Cas started doing it,” Hannah said with a laugh. “He pointed out that you get twice the pizza per bite.”  
“Sacrilege,” said Dean, trying to smile at Cas.  
Cas continued to study the ground.  
That was the sum total of their small talk.  
Hannah and Castiel finished up at the same time and Cas took their plates to the sink.  
“Thanks for the pizza,” Hannah said brightly.  
“Yes, thank you,” Cas said as though thanking Dean had been the furthest thing from his mind. “We’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to gather up the flowers and dispose of them for you,” Cas said as Dean led the way to the front door.  
“We take them to Fieldview, the nursing home?” said Hannah. “We’ll take them out of your teapots, of course.”  
Cas threw a strange glance over his shoulder and hurried down the steps.  
“See you tomorrow, then,” Dean called at their backs.  
Hannah turned with a sort of apologetic smile and a wave.  
Cas was in the van cranking the engine before Dean could say anything else.  
Charlie was wrapping the last set of silverware when Dean came back.  
“Let’s go see!” Charlie said excitedly, and they jogged back down to the basement.  
The table was a sea of flowers.  
Dean recognized the grandiose ranunculus, the bobbing sprigs of sweet pea, and the furled little fiddlehead ferns. Each arrangement was perfect, fanciful and airy.  
When he came closer, he could see here and there among the blossoms fuzzy little chicks peeking out coyly.  
They were the cutest thing he’d ever seen. He was faintly disappointed that Cas hadn’t noticed his duck pot.  
The overall effect was that of a woodland fairy-realm, with pert pink and yellow blossoms swaying over round-leafed greenery and punctuated by the round, curled heads of the ferns.  
“Wow,” Dean said, walking around the table.  
“He’s so cool,” Charlie said with a sigh. “You have to ask him out.”  
“I don’t think I scored enough teapot points,” Dean said morosely.  
They admired the displays for a few moments, then Dean asked, “You ready to go home?”  
“Yep, let me pack up and we can get out of here,” she said as she climbed the stairs.  
Dean cut the lights with one last glance at Cas’ artistry.  
If they were lovely in his basement, he couldn’t wait to see how beautiful they would look upstairs, with the early spring sunlight spilling through the curtains.  
Dean had said ‘whimsical’ and ‘teapots’ and Cas had actually brought his words to life.  
There had to be a way to win this man over. It might take time and ingenuity, but Dean had to try.  
He and Charlie left, and he locked up the Castle, leaving it to guard his treasures until the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flowers take the tears of weeping night, and give them to the sun for the day’s delight.  
>  \--Joseph Cotter

As soon as Dean and Charlie made their graceless exit upstairs, Hannah hit Cas on the arm and said, “Why were you so rude? It’s one thing to be standoffish—when he offered to help you with the flowers he was trying to be nice to you!”  
“I panicked! I panicked, alright? I’ve been so nervous that he’s going to think I’m an ass that guess what? I’m acting like an ass. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Cas paused and jabbed a fern into a teapot. “But it doesn’t matter.”  
Hannah tilted her head. “Why not?”  
Castiel gave her a serious look. “Because he’s interested in you.”  
Hannah waited a beat to answer. “No?”  
“He gave you his shirt.”  
Hannah’s eyes widened. “You don’t think?...”  
“Classic straight-guy move.”  
“I’m sorry, Cas,” his sister said again.  
They were quiet as Castiel slipped blossoms and ferns into the teapots, which Dean had evidently selected with care. He filled in bare spots, tweaked the angle of a blossom here and there, and slid the picks with the fuzzy little baby chickens into place.  
“You can go out with him,” he said after a few minutes.  
Hannah scoffed. “That’s generous of you, but I’m not into him.”  
“You don’t have to say that for my sake.”  
“I’m really not. Honestly.”  
“You were flirting with him,” Cas asserted, feeling ever more bitter.  
Hannah gaped. “I wasn’t!”  
Cas poked a ranunculus into a block of foam. “You kept going on and on about his teapots.”  
“That one with the ducks was cute and you know it!”  
Cas said nothing. “It was,” he finally conceded. “It was probably meant to impress you.”  
“Because I’m a girl and I automatically love baby animals?”  
“Don’t you?”  
Hannah scowled at him for a moment. “I was just trying to be friendly since all you would do was grump at him,” she protested.  
“I wasn’t grumpy. Well, there was a moment when I was visualizing the process that I think… I’m not sure what I said but I was probably… short… with him.” Cas sniffed. “I know I’m good with clients, but when it comes to… you know, getting close to someone…”  
They lapsed into silence, Cas’ words hanging like ripe fruit between them.  
“I don’t know what to do. I’m—I’m getting too old for this. Maybe I’m just… meant to be alone.”  
Hannah frowned at him, but said nothing.  
“Seriously, Han,” he continued, hoping to goad her into contradicting him. “Maybe I’m going to end up, you know, one of those dusty old spinsters who breed rare orchids and play Edith Piaf records on antique gramophones and whose best friend is a hairy old cat--  
“Cas—“  
“Or maybe I’ll have a parrot. I’ll teach it to recite the poems of Pablo Neruda.”  
“ _Cas_ … it’s ‘confirmed bachelor.’ Spinsters are female.”  
“You’re the worst sister ever,” he said, but there was no heat behind his words.  
“Well, anyway,” said Hannah, getting back to the subject, “if he asks me out or anything I’ll turn him down. I’d never do that to you.”  
Cas took a breath. “Thank you.”  
They worked silently, filling teapot after teapot with blossoms.  
When all the pots were filled and Cas had fussed over them until they were perfect, he and Hannah stood back to survey the effect of their work.  
“These are really beautiful, Castiel,” said his sister. “I wasn’t sure this would come together but you did it. How did you think of it?”  
“The teapots were Dean’s idea. And he said he wanted something different. I just… I was showing off a little. With the ranunculus. Because they mean ‘you are radiant.’ He just… fills up a room.”  
“I know.”  
“Let’s go,” he said, and they left.  
To his horror, Dean invited them into the kitchen for pizza. Cas was grateful for the beer, but mortified that he couldn’t think of anything to say. He at least wanted to be nice to Dean, to make up for his earlier boorishness—they’d probably be working together this summer after all—but his disappointment was too great.  
The silence spread like molasses among them, so they made their exit quickly.  
“Well, that couldn’t have been more awkward,” Hannah said. “It will be easier tomorrow, though.”  
“How’s that?”  
“You have all night to cry into your pillow and get over him.”  
Cas rolled his eyes. “You were an accident, you know.”  
Hannah just laughed.  
They were quiet the rest of the way back to the greenhouse, and Hannah helped him unload the van wordlessly.  
“You staying for a while?” she asked as she handed Cas the last empty crate.  
“I have to get my buckets loaded up for City Market tomorrow.” He stacked the crate in the back corner and grabbed a stack of painter’s buckets.   
“I’ll help,” Hannah told him, wheeling out their large, flat cart, and they headed into the greenhouse.  
Cas relished the silky quiet for a moment.  
“What are you taking?” Hannah asked as he flipped on the lights.  
Cas looked over his little garden in the back.  
“I think I’ll take the columbine,” he said, and picked up the flat of blossoms carefully, placing them on the bed of the cart.  
He and Hannah carefully picked out other flowers, putting cuttings in the buckets, and flats on the cart, and threw in a couple of the heirloom tomatoes Cas had planted, and loaded the van again.  
Cas paused before his sister got in her car. “I’m very glad we get along so well. Thank you for your help. With everything.”  
She gave him a surprise hug good night. “Always. See you tomorrow,” Hannah said.  
Cas watched her meander around the potholes as she drove away.  
He really needed to call someone to fix his parking lot.  
Maybe… maybe Dean could recommend a business. That was one way to make a connection.  
He resolved to ask him about a gravel supplier in the morning. It might lead to some more small talk.  
Cas knew he should quash his feelings, but at the same time, it all felt so good. Being in love, unrequited though it was, was addictive. Getting over Dean would be like hollowing his heart, leaving it stony and barren. He was afraid that nothing would be left, and that nothing else would ever grow there.  
He stood outside the greenhouse for a moment, considering whether or not he should go back in.  
But he had nothing to plant, anymore. He couldn’t keep sending his secret messages to Dean, now that Dean was onto the code.  
Dean’s eye was on Hannah, after all.  
Cas and Hannah had never competed, since they were four years apart, so he was unaccustomed to feeling jealous of her. It wasn’t her fault-- she’d only meant to be friendly to make up for Cas’ social shortcomings.  
The sun was long set, and the night was chilly, and the market opened at six, so he had to get on his way.  
He drove towards the glow of Kansas City in silence, thoughts turning like the wheeling stars above, so he was startled when his phone rang.  
It was Alfie, who was supposed to run the shop tomorrow with Hester.  
He got a sinking feeling as he answered his phone.  
“ _Cas, I have a problem_ ,” Alfie began, “ _I can’t come in tomorrow-- my mom just had an emergency appendectomy. I already called Hester and she’s out of town. Um…_ ”  
“Is your mother alright?”  
“ _She’s in recovery, so you know, everything seems to be okay. They have to keep her here on IV antibiotics for a couple of days, though. So…_ ”  
Cas knew that Alfie’s mom was divorced, and Alfie was an only child.  
“Don’t worry about the shop, I’ll cover for you. You stay with your mother.”  
Alfie gave a heartfelt sigh. “ _Thanks, Castiel. Really, thank you._ ”  
“Of course. I hope your mother gets well soon,” Cas said. “Please tell her I’m thinking of her.”  
“ _I will, thanks_.”  
He thumbed out of the call regretfully and hit Hannah’s icon.  
“Han, I have to work in the shop tomorrow. Can you pick up the flowers from the Castle tomorrow afternoon?”  
“ _Sure, Cas, I was planning on helping you, anyway. But oh no, you can’t do the farmer’s market in the morning either. All those cut flowers will spoil!_ ”  
“I’ll live,” he said, trying not to be doubly disappointed. “I’ll put what I can into the coolers at the shop and go on Sunday.”  
“ _I sent you a video on Facebook, by the way. It’s about flower sellers in India—their arrangements are really amazing; they look totally different than anything you see over here_.”  
“I’ve seen those. Flat and spiky and they tie them together. Maybe I’ll try making a few for Holi this year.”  
“ _That’s what I was thinking! You know, flowers are sacred there, and there are some that can only be worn by women,” she continued, “and you should see the photos I found of how cars are decorated for weddings—it’s really amazing_.”  
“I’ll have to Google that,” Cas said.  
They kept up a conversation until Cas got home. He knew his sister was trying to keep him from wallowing in self-pity.  
The next time he saw Dean, it would likely be while he was setting up for a wedding. There would be little time for chitchat, and he thought maybe he was thankful for that.  
He poured himself a whisky and water—so he could get some sleep—and checked his email.

One message in particular caught his eye. The subject line read, _Regency wedding? We were referred to you._

A regency wedding? He had a soft spot for that era, even if his heart belonged to the Victorian. Mostly because of Jane Austen, but still.  
He replied that he’d love to arrange an appointment and gave the bride-to-be a few dates on which they could meet.  
He took care of the rest of the messages, then looked at the links Hannah had sent him.  
He could see that India had a much different aesthetic than the west.  
Red and white chrysanthemums tended to be arranged in tiers, palm fronds were tied in elaborate designs, lilies were arranged in tall spirals. And the cars—he’d never seen anything like them. The designs displayed amazing artistry, and seemed to range from simple sprays across the hood to huge nets of chrysanthemums draped from front to back.  
He thought, as he fell asleep, that he wanted to try to cover an entire car in a blanket of white lilies. For someone’s wedding. Someday.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.  
> \--Pablo Neruda

Cas found someone on Angie’s List who did a perfectly fine job fixing his parking lot for a reasonable price.  
Dean found himself burning the candle at both ends as he juggled his restoration contracts with the demands of the Castle.  
The days spooled away into the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...chapter 8 coming soon...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love spring anywhere, but if I could I would always greet it in a garden.  
> \--Ruth Stout

Dean hit the little pen icon and opened a blank email. The square of empty, glowing whiteness on his phone was daunting.  
He stared into the glow until he thought he could see individual corpuscles moving in the veins of his eyeballs.  
It had been almost a month since his Easter brunch, and it had gone so much better than he’d expected. The people of Lawrence were aching for spring and embraced his offering wholeheartedly; on the day of the fete he actually had to turn a few latecomers away.  
Castiel’s flowers were breathtaking, and he gave away his supply of Cas’ business cards and started writing the greenhouse information on the backs of his own.  
He was disappointed that Castiel hadn’t come himself to remove the arrangements when it was all over, and while Hannah mentioned an emergency at the shop in KC, he suspected that maybe it had something to do with their ungainly interaction the night before.  
He’d let Charlie help Hannah clear out the teapots while he gathered up the table linens to return to the rental service.  
He was bummed, but not surprised, and packed his pretty little porcelain containers away alone that night. As he worked, he hadn’t been able to shake the image of Cas’ long fingers delicately slipping a lithe stem into place, or the way his brow had arched when he’d told Dean not to doubt him.  
During the weeks since, long-awaited weddings were finally coming to fruition, but he’d yet to run into Castiel. He’d been stalking Cas’ Instagram and the Bee’s Knee’s Facebook page and saw that he was obviously busy, but nothing had come up to send him to the Castle.  
It was starting to look like the universe might not bring them together again.  
So finally, Dean thought of the perfect reason to contact Castiel. He told himself it was just a casual outreach, one businessman to another.  
He hoped, however, that maybe he could bring Cas around, so he felt a touch of nerves along the backs of his wrists.  
He took a deep breath.  
_Hey Cas,_ he wrote, _Listen, I was thinking about putting a real garden in behind the Castle. There used to be one, and there's still a border and a statue of St. Francis and some gazing balls that I need to bleach and scrub because they're covered in algae. I tried to plant some stuff this past summer. It went okay. Not great. The brown-eyed susans pretty much took over, and some deer ate all the petunias._  
Another project was probably the last thing he needed. He was knee-deep in a renovation of the church he was parked in front of, just outside Topeka, and could barely keep up with all of the bookings at the Castle.  
But his desire to surround the Castle with growing things and flood her rooms with blossoms was growing stronger as the spring leached into summer.  
_I was reading today that planting in Kansas should start in March? Some of the sites I read said you're supposed to start seeds indoors in February though? It’s the middle of April already, am I too late? What should I do? ___  
He paused again. He sounded a little panicked. Well, he was a little panicked. He needed Cas' help, and... and he _wanted_ Cas' help.  
_And if you could recommend anything I can grow that would be, you know, Victorian, that would suit the Castle, I'd appreciate it. Hope to hear from you soon. Thanks, Dean._  
He submitted the message before he chickened out. He stared at his inbox. One minute became two.  
Of course Cas wasn't going to answer right away. Even if he were online right now or got emails pushed to his phone, as he did himself, it would take a while to read, then to reply...  
In the meantime, he had work to do. He got out of his truck and holstered his phone just as Benny came looking for him.  
His foreman adjusted his cap as he walked Dean back to the church.  
“You were right-- Cesar and Jesse got up into the attic and there’s a pretty good size colony up there.”  
“Benny, say that again because it sounded like you were insinuating that there’s bats… in the belfry.”  
“That was good. When’s your HBO special? But anyway, they said they’ll clear out the bats, but that shuts us down for a few days because we got to muck out the guano, too—they been up there for a little while.”  
“Same old same old,” Dean said. “I used to think bats were cute.”  
“They eat mosquitoes,” Benny said philosophically.  
“They suck.”  
“At least it’s too early for babies. If they had little ones we’d have to wait a month or more. You want to talk to the pastor or you want me to do it?”  
Dean sighed. “I’ll do it—it comes back on me anyway.” They were already a week behind their proposal because they’d found water damage under the baptismal and had to delay for mold mitigation.  
He and Benny found Cesar and Jesse by the attic stairs. He could smell the guano wafting down from the rafters.  
“Hey, my friend, you got bats in the belfry,” said Jesse, and Benny groaned.  
Dean fistbumped him.  
“Usual process,” Cesar said, grabbing a toolbox he’d left on the ground as Jesse closed up the attic access. “We figured out where their primary egress is, so we’ll start blocking up other gaps in there and set an exclusion device to keep them from getting back in in the morning.”  
“Probably gonna use a net on this one because they’re getting out in a long crack between the roof and two beams,” said Jessie.  
“Whatever you gotta do,” answered Dean. “About three days before we can get in there to clear out the guano?”  
Yeah, it takes that long to make sure they’ve moved on.”  
“Appreciate your help,” Dean said before leaving them to their work.  
“I’ll tell the crew if you take care of the preacher,” said Benny, peeling off to find his workers.  
Dean sighed.  
He found Pastor Jim in his tiny little office; he had note scattered across his desk and several books open behind him.  
“Mr. Winchester, how can I help you?”  
“You got bats in the belfry,” he attempted.  
Pastor Jim smiled and quirked an eyebrow. “I’ve seen some flying around the parking lot in the evenings. Does this delay your work?”  
“At least three days to get them out—“  
“You aren’t going to hurt them are you? We are charged by God to be stewards of all animals, even those we find repellant,” he said, genuine concern in his eyes.  
Dean smiled reassuringly. “No, they’ll be fine. I’ve got some exterminators who are going to put up a net, so the bats can get out at night but won’t go back in. After about two or three days they’ll all have moved on.”  
“Well, all things in their time. I know you’re working as fast as you can.”  
“I promise you, this will be a building everyone will be proud of when we’re done.”  
“Thank you, it is very beloved to us. Is there anything else?”  
“Just that. I’ll be able to give you a better idea of how things are going after we get the flying nuisances out of your hair.”  
“Very good—have a nice afternoon.”  
“Same to you, Pastor.”  
Dean hadn’t heard an email notification from his phone, but he checked it anyway once he was outside.  
Nothing from Cas.  
But, he reasoned, Cas usually posted to Instagram and Facebook after store hours, so maybe he hadn’t even seen Dean’s email yet.  
He still felt a pang, or maybe a premonition, that his request might not appeal to Cas as much as he’d hoped.  
His crew was gone, Benny having dismissed them for the day. He drove back to Lawrence alone, cranking up his radio but still eyeing his phone from time to time.  
He got home quickly, having perhaps driven a little faster than usual, and there was still nothing. It was only four thirty.  
He drank a cold El Sol right out of the bottle and browsed through Netflix, still waiting to hear a chime.  
Not even spam.  
He texted Sam, needing someone to annoy.  
_Hey what do you call a bat with a carrot in each ear?_  
After a few minutes, Sam replied, _Anything you want, he can’t hear you._  
_You googled that. What’s more amazing than a talking bat?_  
Sam wouldn’t answer him back, so Dean pulled up Cas’ Instagram. There were photos of beautiful corsages posted to his feed. _Prom season is here! We can match any dress! See us for your big night! #beesknees #prom #seniorprom #juniorprom #promnight #corsage #boutonniere #flowers #florals #kansascity #lawrence #wematchyourdress #happy #beautiful #onceinalifetime_  
Cas really loved his hashtags. Dean had seen him use as many as thirty before, which Dean guessed was the app’s hashtag limit.  
But he apparently didn’t like answering emails.  
Dean’s mood, already wobbly, was souring.  
He immersed himself in making a beef bourguinion for dinner—the multi-step recipe kept his mind off of Cas. Plus, since he had it out anyway, he took a shot of Cognac while searing the beef. As he simmered the carrots and onions in the pot, his phone notified him that he had an email.  
Leaving the vegetables to cook, he checked the message.  
It was from Cas.  
_Dean,_  
I was nice to hear from you; I’m sorry I missed your Easter brunch but I heard it was a success. I hope to work with you again in the future.  
I have some ideas for your garden and will be communicating with you soon.  
Take care,  
Castiel.  
Well, it wasn’t much, but at least he wasn’t telling him to get lost.  
He debated whether or not to reply to the reply, then decided that discretion, in this case, was the better part of valor, and left it alone.  
He checked his phone when it pinged again—this time a text from Sam.  
_A spelling bee,_ his brother wrote.  
_cheater!! you suck_ , he answered.  
He dropped in the garlic and the Cognac, which he lit on fire with a feeling of terrified glee.  
Maybe Cas didn’t hate him. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but he was starting to think he was getting a second chance.  
Maybe.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot help thinking that it is more natural to have flowers grow out of the head than fruit.  
> -Jane Austen

Cas’ after-hours appointment was late.  
He was not surprised.  
This bride-to-be was flighty. She’d emailed him a few weeks ago for his perspective on a Regency wedding, to which he’d replied with a brief overview of Regency-style floral design and an invitation to schedule a consultation. She’d replied with a list of questions about Victorian flower-language, which he’d answered as thoroughly as he could, and he again urged her to set up a meeting. They’d gone back and forth a few more times, and Castiel started getting the feeling that she might be getting the idea that he might actually be _her_ wedding florist.  
_I really can’t emphasize how important it is that we meet face-to-face_ , he’d written to her. _In order to provide the florals for your occasion I require that we draw up a contract. Also, time is of the essence if you’re firm for a June 15th ceremony. Not only will we need to order the flowers for your wedding, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be available on that date unless we formalize our agreement._  
He’d sent his message hoping more than a little that she would just go away after reading it, but she’d replied that she could meet him at the greenhouse that week.  
And it was twenty minutes past their agreed-upon time, and the future Mrs. Rebecca Rosen-Whatshisname wasn’t where she’d promised to be.  
He posted a collage of last year’s prom corsages to Instagram, and Hester had put up a few pictures for him on Facebook from the shop because he’d left early, to get to Lawrence, for the meeting that might not be happening.  
He didn’t know what else he could do to pass the time; he didn’t want to go to the greenhouse, because as sure as he got into something she would show up, but he hated sitting on his thumbs.  
Cas was caught in the limbo of waiting for someone who might not even show.  
He looked at the inspiration board he’d put together for her, realigning one of the photos to be more level.  
Cas stared at his monitor for a while, willing an email to appear that would explain her tardiness or excuse a last minute cancellation. To his surprise, the screen refreshed and with a cheery ‘ding!’ and an email did, in fact, appear in his inbox.  
It was from Dean Winchester.  
_Need some advice,_ read the subject line.  
Cas froze.  
He hesitated to read it. What could the question be besides how to get Hannah’s attention?  
While he waffled over whether or not to open the message, the chimes above the shop door tinkled, and he minimized the window quickly, hoping both that it both was and was not Rebecca.  
It was a young couple, the woman pulling a man inside by his wrist. She glanced around and keyed on Castiel.  
No, that was definitely the bride he’d been corresponding with.  
He put the message out of his mind and put on his widest smile. He liked the challenge of a themed wedding, after all, and if he could get this young lady to settle down they might create something wonderful.  
“Hi, I’m Becky Rosen—for now—and this is my fiancé, Charles—“  
“Call me Chuck,” the other man said, shaking his hand.  
“Good to finally meet you, Becky and Chuck,” Cas said. “Congratulations. And thank you for considering allowing me to be part of your big day. If you’ll come into my office, I have some things prepared that will help me get a feel for what you want.”  
Becky charged into his office, again pulling Chuck behind her.  
Castiel watched the groom-to-be nervously. He hadn’t gotten the feeling that this was a shotgun wedding, and some grooms tended to be more reserved than their counterparts, but he couldn’t be sure that this man was very enthused about his upcoming nuptials.  
“You mentioned a Regency theme in your first email,” Cas said, picking up a worn college textbook that he’d pulled out expressly for the consultation and paging through it. He turned it to show a couple of portraits of young women holding bouquets of wildflowers to Becky and Chuck. “Now, during the Regency period, most people used whatever flowers they had at hand when they made up bouquets. So we’re talking wildflowers and whatever they were growing in their kitchen gardens, as well as herbs and foliage, mostly.”  
“Like in the Jane Austen movies?”  
“Yes, the movies I’ve seen do a very good job at representing that aesthetic. Now the Victorians, they were all about cultivated flowers--”  
“They discovered the language of flowers, right?” said Becky, enraptured. “I mean, that’s what I thought when I saw those peonies, because they mean ‘happy marriage.’ So that’s why I thought, why not Victorian, you know?”  
“You’re very right," Castiel said, leafing ahead. "The Victorians invented a whole system of communicating with flowers and herbs and other plants, and ladies and gentlemen would send each other these intricate bouquets that they would then interpret.” He turned the book around to show Becky and Chuck illustrations of more formal-looking groupings of flowers, these in vases and metal holders. Roses featured prominently. “But formal floral arrangement also became popular during this era-- instead of just gathering flowers, they were made into displays. It became an art form. So really, your wedding flowers are going to look much different if you go with a Regency theme than they will if you go Victorian. That is, if you’re really serious about keeping within those periods.” He looked at Becky intently. “Listen, this is your wedding. You can do whatever you want. If you want to wear a pirate costume and have bamboo and orchid bowls on your table, that’s completely up to you. I’m here to give you advice but then ultimately to make your dreams come true.”  
Becky’s eyes were shining, and Chuck had a wistful smile on his face as he watched her out of the side of his eye.  
“Let me show you a few things that might help you make up your mind,” Cas said, still angling for Becky’s business. He pulled the little inspiration board he’d made out from behind the table.  
“These are centerpieces I did for another wedding that incorporated a lot of wildflowers and foliage,” he explained, pointing to one of the pictures. “The purple is heather, the white is a flower called agonis, the pink is astilbe, the daisies you recognize of course...” He let her look over the board for a moment.  
“That’s beautiful. What does it mean?”  
Cas smiled to himself. “Nothing, I’m afraid. If you want flowers with hidden meanings, we can work on that. Let me show you another,” he said, flipping a few pages back. “This is a bridal bouquet, with more of a Victorian look-- you see, heavy on roses, very thickly clustered and with only a few fillers, and those flat ferns softening the edges.”  
“I see,” Becky said, eyes alight.  
Castiel prodded further. “How far along are you in your plans? Will you need arrangements for the seating or for tables?” They looked at him a little blankly, so he started smaller. “Do you know how many bridesmaids and groomsmen you’ll have?”  
Becky and Chuck smiled at one another. She tapped the photo in front of her, communicating something to Chuck that Castiel couldn’t interpret.  
Finally Chuck broke, grinning broadly. He nodded. “We’re having the ceremony and the reception at the Castle,” he said.  
“And we’re doing a Victorian theme,” said Becky.  
“Just because you want to see me in a ridiculous top hat,” Chuck shot back, laughing.  
“And tails,” Becky countered.  
“We’re having four groomsmen--”  
“And four bridesmaids--”  
“And we want you to do the flowers--”  
“I want peonies. Lots and lots of peonies,” declared Becky.  
Cas pulled out his planner and flipped to a blank page.  
“And you’ve booked the Castle?” he asked, wanting to ascertain that this wasn’t a gig that was likely to fall through.  
Becky leaned forward. “Yes, the proprietor—Dean, do you know him?— he had a few dates left. So we’re going to get married on the fifteenth.” She turned to Chuck. “No matter how many times I say that I still get a little... !” she said, shivering dramatically.  
“Great, great,” said Cas, moving the conversation along, “so let me draw up a contract, which I can get to you by the end of the week, and if you agree you can sign it and email it back to me.” This wasn’t the first rush job he’d ever done; while current trends were moving toward lengthy engagements, some people still didn’t want to wait. He understood that.  
“I just had an idea,” Becky said, and Cas smiled mildly.  
“I’d love to hear it,” he assured her.  
“Can we do a message with the flowers?”  
“Yes, of course we can. That would work in perfect harmony with your both your choice of venue and your theme.”  
“I know! Could you put something together like that? To go with the peonies?”  
“I’d be happy to,” he said, going through a mental catalogue of flowers he could either order quickly or grow by the middle of June.  
“Flowers that mean ‘happy marriage’ and ‘undying love’ and things like that.”  
“The peonies will be an excellent start,” Cas assured her.  
“I’m so excited!” she said, clapping her hands. “Okay, well, we have to run, we’re meeting out realtor in a few minutes—email me!” Becky said as she and her fiancé bustled out of the little office.  
Cas took a breath. He knew he should start making notes while his conversation with the Rosen-Shirleys was still fresh, but the email from Dean eclipsed his capcity to concentrate.  
He opened the message, smiling as he read it to himself. It sounded like Dean had made a few novice mistakes with a garden he’d attempted last summer.  
As Cas read Dean’s message, an idea coalesced, swelled, and then split like a germinating seed, in the darkest stratum of his mind. It rooted quickly and then burgeoned into life like a time-lapse video.  
Cas ran a hand through his hair and blew out a long breath.  
He’d dwelt for a long time over that evening. According to Hannah, Dean hadn’t resumed flirting with her when she arrived to help with the flowers, so she insisted that they not read too much into what she referred to as ‘the shirt incident.’ And Dean was definitely not asking about her…  
Like a junkie looking for a high he wanted to see Dean again. He needed to see him smile, or better yet laugh, and needed to hear the rumbling velvet of his voice.  
Cas knew he would be deliberately hurting himself, but he didn’t care.  
He poked his head outside his office and called for Hannah.  
“What’s up?” she asked, looking a little amused at his harried appearance.  
“Help me write a reply to this that doesn’t make me look like a complete jerk,” he said, pulling a chair around the table.  
Hannah read Dean’s email quickly. “Cas,” she said, a warning note in her voice, but he cut her off.  
“We have to work together,” he said. “I have five weddings at the Castle this summer. He’s asking for help. I’d like to… help him.”  
She gave him a measuring look. “What are you going to do?”  
“I don’t know yet,” he said, brushing off his sister’s scrutiny and lying blatantly. “But I feel as though I should acknowledge his request. And the last time I sent him an email I think it was… blunt. So I want to keep it simple but not, you know, ill-mannered.”  
Hannah nodded. “Fair enough. You should start with some kind of social pleasantry—good to hear from you, how is business, hope all is well, things like that.”  
“I know that,” he muttered, and started typing.  
“Did you, now?” she asked tartly. “Oh, his Easter brunch was really great, mention that.”  
“Why? I wasn’t there.”  
“It’s a personal touch, Cas—do you want my help or not?”  
_Dean_ , he wrote, it was nice to hear from you; I’m sorry I missed your Easter brunch but I heard it was a success.  
He thought for a moment. He didn’t want to sound like he was looking for anything beyond a respectful professional relationship, but at the same time, he was feeling… giddy.  
_I hope to work with you again in the future. I have some ideas for your garden and will be communicating with you soon. Castiel._  
“Put some kind of closing there, for heaven’s sake,” Hannah urged.  
He balked. ‘Sincerely’ seemed too formal.  
Hannah watched him expectantly.  
_Take care_ , he added right before his name.  
“Okay,” Hannah pronounced, “simple, direct, but not rude.”  
Cas sent it.  
“So what are those plans you were talking about?” Hannah asked innocently.  
“You know, just want to help him figure out what to plant, tell him how to care for seedlings, how to organize a garden by height and season. It just might take me some time to… gather my thoughts.”  
“Mm hm.” She stared at him.  
“Well anyway thanks Hannah,” he said when the moment stretched too long. He ushered her out of the office. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  
“Fail a lot,” she said simply. She turned and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Just… guard your heart, Castiel.”  
He gave her a hug. “This is why you’re Mother’s favorite,” he said.  
“And Dad’s,” she answered.  
Hannah went back to the cash register and picked up her book. A father and his little boy came in and she greeted them warmly and answered the boy’s query that they did, in fact, have lawn flamingoes at the back of the store, along with toadstools and gnomes.  
Cas ducked back into his office, grabbed his notebook, and began to write. Electricity raced through him.  
Like Hannah said, he needed to protect himself against the heartbreak that went hand-in-hand with falling for a straight guy, but at the same time he needed to stretch, to take a risk, to at least capture this man’s friendship.  
It was a bad idea, what he was about to do, but it was also possibly his best idea ever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where flowers bloom so does hope.  
>  \--Ladybird Johnson

Dean was having trouble concentrating the next morning.  
Running two businesses was wearing him thin. He’d been delegating more and more responsibility with his restoration company to Benny—so much that he was considering making him a partner—and the suspicion that he might need to hire an event planner for the Castle was simmering on a back burner.  
Today there was nothing going on in Topeka since the bat colony was keeping them from tearing out the church’s ceilings, so he stayed in Lawrence to put up the spinner of Mother’s Day cards he’d ordered.  
And also… it was flower day…  
He was looking at the assembly instructions for the hardware quizzically. He was sure he hadn’t skipped any steps, but he had extra pieces scattered around him.  
“Let me see,” Charlie said, taking the paper away from him. “You turned the page over too soon—look, we skipped from number seven to number twelve.”  
They backed up and fitted more of the spinner together. Charlie then held pieces steady as Dean jimmied the last screws into place; after that the pockets just snapped on.  
“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” she said, a little disappointed.  
“We ordered their smallest selection,” Dean reminded her. “We’re not exactly a Gold Crown store.”  
“Valid point,” she said. “But we keep this thing, right?” she asked, spinning it around and around until it wobbled.  
“This is ours,” Dean said, steadying the fixture. “The cards are supposed to be here this afternoon.” He stood up and stretched, knees creaking a little. “Alright—I’m going to put up merchandise. You don’t have to help, really.”  
“It’s okay. I don’t hate Mother’s Day, you know? It just… means something a little different to people like us,” she said, following him into the next room, where they kept their inventory.  
“I was little, I barely remember my mom,” Dean said, handing Charlie a small box with motherhood-themed charm jewelry in it. He picked up a larger box full of wooden figurines.  
“That doesn’t mean you don’t mourn her any less than I do mine,” Charlie said softly.  
Dean set the box down gently. “Maybe not.”  
“But that’s why I’m so excited that we’re getting these cards—we’ll be helping people connect with their mothers, we’ll be strengthening lines of communication.”  
Dean smiled at her. “Your talents are wasted here.”  
“You’re not getting rid of me, Winchester, I like staring out the window listening to No Doubt too much to ever move on.”  
Dean moved a shelf down and started arranging the folksy sculptures on it while Charlie put together a cardboard display for the jewelry.  
  
  
After five minutes, his phone pinged as an email came in. He checked it quickly, excited that it might be another email from Cas.  
Castiel’s reply last night had been typically brief but not as abrupt as his other messages—Dean thought maybe he’d gotten a finger in a chink and could begin to work Cas’ armor away.  
It was, however, from Victor; Dean wanted to sulk and throw his phone onto the counter.  
His friend had another period restoration, this one a farmhouse from the 1870's near Tonganoxie, halfway between Lawrence and Kansas City. Dean was flattered that Victor had recommended him, although he was pretty sure he was going to have to turn this down.  
He absentmindedly sat down and clicked slowly through the photos, which Victor had taken himself, and saw quite a patchwork of upgrades through the decades. The original trim from the doors had been removed and replaced by milled pine, which still looked to be painted with white factory primer, and the interior doors had been changed out, as well. That was probably the seller's effort to modernize the house in order to attract a buyer. Wooden floors were covered with more durable and contemporary-looking laminate. Newer windows had been installed at one point-- Dean guessed they were from the 60's-- although they'd kept the original sills. The kitchen had been remodeled in the eighties, when the home-decorating craze was just getting underway, and the oaken cabinetry was dark, heavy, and doubly-anachronistic.  
Ideas began to coalesce in his head. The trim would have to be stripped and restained, if not redone completely, the flooring needed to be ripped out and the boards underneath refinished, the kitchen absolutely had to be de-modeled...  
He found immense satisfaction in taking old homes back in time, in unravelling the strands of change that clung cobweb-like to the structure, but he also came alive when the Castle was swarming with celebrants, when her halls swelled with excited voices and her tables were laden with flowers and food…  
Dean was being torn between two worlds.  
He heard a car door slam outside, and realized that this arrival must be Inias with the flowers.  
Farmhouse forgotten, he sprang from his chair, sending it spinning, and strode to the door.  
Charlie followed him out of the shop with a knowing smirk, and Dean shot her a quelling glance.  
None of the arrangements since the peonies had seemed to have secret messages in them; he assumed it had been a lucky coincidence that he even caught that one. He’d checked each new slip, saw that the flowers in them either weren’t on any lists, or didn’t make any sense together, and so he had dejectedly stuck them in the file with the others. It was crazy to think that Cas would be encoding messages in all of his arrangements, anyway.  
He was puzzled to see that Castiel’s courier didn’t seem to have any flowers at all.  
Inias trotted up the stairs with a large wicker basket.  
"There's some more stuff in the back," he said as he handed the basket off and trotted down to the van.  
Dean and Charlie peered inside.  
It was a collection of seed packets and plastic bags containing bulbs and soil.  
He picked up one of the bags that looked like nothing more than roots in thick black dirt-- there was a white label with ‘Adiantum Aleuticum- western maidenhair fern’ written on it in Castiel's graceful handwriting.  
At the bottom of the basket were five packages of soil disks, presumably for starting some of the seeds indoors.  
Inias was back with a flat of annuals on one arm and a white jug in his other hand-- Dean recognized the flowers immediately.  
Purple, pink, and white petunias, and a jug of Deer-Out.  
He laughed.  
"Here, I'll take those," Charlie said, accepting the plants from Inias.  
Inias handed Dean the container.  
"Alright, that's all I got today," Inias said and jogged back down the stairs. "See you next week!"  
Dean held the door for Charlie and she set the petunias down on a kitchen counter.  
They looked at the basket thoughtfully, and Charlie took a handful of packets out and spread them on the table.  
Dean picked through them. Some were commercially packaged seeds, from companies like Burpee, but some were obviously hand-selected and had labels from home printers on the front. Many he recognized—brightly-colored pansies, marigold, and zinnia, and the ranunculus that Cas had used for Dean’s Easter brunch. But there were several he had never heard of—tall stately delphinium, daisy-like asters, dense clusters of yarrow, vivid blue coreopsis, delicate anemone, and frilly gloxinia.  
Charlie picked up a little envelope of seeds and shook them. They made a satisfying swishing sound. "Dean, this is the best."  
"Yeah," he agreed, reading the back of a packet of echinacea seeds.  
"No, I mean, this is The Best. He gave you a whole garden. A whole garden!"  
Dean stopped reading the envelope abruptly and stared into the distance.  
Castiel had sent him a garden.  
"Dude, what?" Charlie asked.  
“I thought he didn’t like me.”  
"Seriously doubt that,” she said with a sidelong glance at him. “Hey, here—this looks like a letter," she said, handing Dean a blank envelope.  
Inside was a note written on the back of a couple of old order slips.  
Dean, I hope I'm not being presumptuous in sending a selection of seeds, bulbs, and rhizomes to start your garden. These are basic, universal, easy-to-grow plants that also make attractive arrangements. In addition, the Echinacea makes a soothing tea.  
If you want to represent the Victorian era, you may want to consider investing in perennial plants like wisteria, freesia, and roses, many varieties of which do very well in the Midwest.  
If I'm not being too forward, I'd like to come by and see your garden, and we can figure out how to optimize your soil and perhaps discuss other plans you may have for the space.  
I hope you enjoy,  
Castiel.  
The second page was a description of what seeds to plant in the little pods Cas had sent, and how to care for the seedlings.  
Dean smiled, warmth spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. The formal tone that was once a little off-putting was becoming… endearing. He could imagine Cas strolling down an English country lane, tipping his hat at the gentry as they passed. He was an old soul, that was all.  
And he wanted to come to the Castle.  
He handed the letter over to Charlie, who read it quickly and immediately started jumping up and down. “You’re in! You’re in!” she squealed.  
“I… you think?”  
She swatted at him. “You’re so dense you could form your own star system. Yes! He sent you a garden!”  
Dean smoothed out the note.  
Cas had sent him a garden.  
“I’m going to call him. Figure out when we can get together.” His heart thumped.  
“Yesss!” hissed Charlie, pulling a triumphant fist to her chest.  
“Pump the brakes,” Dean said, laughing at Charlie’s zeal. “He still might not like me.”  
Charlie rolled her eyes and let her head hang back in exasperation.  
He figured that Cas would be at his flower shop since it was morning on a Wednesday, so he called there.  
A woman answered, and he asked to speak with Cas. She handed off the phone.  
“This is Castiel.”  
Dean froze. That rough voice was starting to do things to him.  
Charlie rolled her hands in front of her, mouthing, ‘Go on!’  
“Hey, Cas, this is Dean. Hey I uh, I just got your delivery.”  
There was a long silence, during which Dean thought he could hear a door close.  
“And?” said Cas finally.  
“It’s awesome. All I wanted was a little advice, so I really appreciate you going out of your way, man.”  
“I sell flowers for a living, but I garden to truly live,” said Cas quietly. “It’s the best way to let your soul breathe.”  
That brought Dean up short. He hadn’t expected Castiel to be so eloquent after being so brusque last month—but then, he was talking about something he was obviously passionate about. He was so damn deep—getting to know Cas was like looking down a well, trying to see the water at the bottom.  
“Well, uh, I’d like to take you up on your offer.”  
“My offer?” Cas squeaked.  
“Yeah, to come over and look at it. At the garden. I mean, isn’t that… weren’t you going to— “  
“Of course!” interjected Castiel. “Yes, I’d be more than happy to. I’m busy this weekend and next with weddings, but I might have a Sunday afternoon I could free up the week after? In the meantime, I left instructions for how to start many of those plants indoors, if you feel capable. Not to imply that you can’t… plant seeds.”  
Dean heard a thump in the background. “No, I’ll do it, I’ll get some started. So uh… email me, I guess, and we’ll figure something out? Look forward to seeing you,” Dean said, feeling downright giddy. This was the most he’d ever gotten Cas to say to him.  
He’d been right, he’d been completely right to ask for Cas’ help.  
“Well?” asked Charlie, vibrating like a plucked string.  
“He’s going to try to come over in a couple of weeks,” he answered nonchalantly.  
Charlie threw her hands over her head and danced in a circle.  
Dean laughed, but said, “Stop it, Charlotte, he’s just going to look at my garden.”  
She stopped swaying but had a glint in her eye. “Right. And then you’re taking him out to lunch. And then—“  
“I’m going to stop you right there. I have to get him to like me first—“  
“You are impossible!”  
Dean grinned, and she swatted him on the arm.  
“You better take him to lunch though, no playing. Now, are we planting these seeds or what?”  
Dean took in the breadth and depth of the gift he’d been given.  
“Yeah, no time like the present.”  
"Carpe diem, bitch," answered Charlie.


End file.
